


Middle Ground

by MrsJohnReese



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, David Tennant made me do it, Demon/Human Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Mutual Pining, more tags will come as they become appropriate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJohnReese/pseuds/MrsJohnReese
Summary: It was supposed to be an ordinary job. Something to pay the bills, and keep a roof over her head. But the more time she spends in the bookshop owned by A.Z Fell, the more Fiona will realize that she has stepped into something far bigger than she could have ever imagined. Something that may just change her life forever, as she learns that even she is not what she seems. Crowley/OC
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Crowley (Good Omens)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. The Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, once again! Here come the first five already-published chapters of my other (non-AU) Good Omens tale! Many thanks to those of you who give this little idea a chance! I encourage any and all feedback you are willing to give!
> 
> With love,  
> MOMM/MJR

(June 15, 2007)

The human girl stood on the sidewalk before the bookstore, a perplexed frown marring her otherwise youthful features as she peered up at the lettering above the door, and exhaled in an audible sigh. Truthfully, she was more than a little exhausted, after having spent the majority of the day running about in search of gainful employment, only to be turned down time and time again. No one seemed inclined to want to give the daughter of one of the more notorious drunks in Soho the time of day, regardless of how many times she pleaded with them to see that she was not her father's daughter. Not really.

She supposed this little bookshop would be yet another in an already long line of disappointments, but the stubbornness that she liked to believe she had inherited from her late mother allowed for her to square her shoulders once again before walking up to the door and opening it while a little cluster of bells tinkled above her head to announce her arrival.

The interior of the little shop had prompted her to widen her green eyes while her steps came to a halt just barely inside the doorframe. It was almost like stepping into another world, or rather, an older one, the shelves and tables stacked high with tomes in the very best of condition despite the fact that she could tell just by a glance or two at the titles that they were not exactly new. And although she still felt apprehensive over her prospects, particularly as she had already formed a picture in her mind of the likely owner of this little establishment as an elderly gentleman who would be far too prim and proper to even consider hiring the likes of her, the human forced herself to step just a bit further into the store, her heels making muted clicks against the hardwood flooring as she squared her shoulders and forced herself to speak.

"H—hello?"

"Oh I am quite sorry, but we are most definitely closed," A voice replied from somewhere farther back in the store, the sound of a slight rustling reaching her ears, and getting closer, until she finally laid eyes upon the man who had spoken as he emerged from behind a table piled high with still more books, a perplexed smile upon his features. In truth, he was nothing like what she had expected—certainly not elderly, at the very least. But before she could find herself too distracted by that startling realization, the young woman was clearing her throat, her eyes holding her newfound companion's for a moment before she summoned the wherewithal to speak once more.

"Sorry, the—the sign said 'open'—"

"Oh, did it? Must've forgotten to change that."

"I—well, I'm not here for shopping, anyway," The girl went on, a slight flush coloring her cheeks as she silently cursed her seeming inability to do away with her self-doubt for long enough to form a coherent sentence without stammering her way through it as she had done with all the other prospective employers she had visited thus far, "I was wondering if—"

"If what, my dear?"

"If you were hiring."

"Hiring?" The man repeated, his brow furrowed as though the inquiry was about as unexpected as if she had sauntered inside the shop expressing a desire to buy every single book in the place, "Oh. Not really, no."

"Oh. Right. Well, I'll—I'll just be going, then," The girl replied, forcing a half-smile to her lips in hopes that she would not appear rude, before turning on a heel, and heading back towards the door. Despite her best efforts, she could feel the sting of aggravated tears in the corner of her eyes, one hand lifting to dash them away before they could fall, and make her appear even more foolish to this man than she feared she already did. But just as her hand fell upon the doorknob, and she was prepared to depart, the girl found herself stopped in her tracks by the sound of the man's voice addressing her once again, his tone still every bit as tentative and yet gentle as it had been before as she turned her head to glance over her shoulder while he spoke.

"Wait! What—what exactly was it you were hoping to be hired to do?"

"Well—anything, really. Cleaning, bookkeeping, whatever you would need."

"And when would you prefer to start?"

"Erm—as soon as you would like, really," The girl answered, brow furrowed as she cocked her head to the side while the owner of the bookshop approached her slowly, a curious expression upon his face, "It's just, I've tried everywhere else already, and no one—"

"No one has taken you seriously."

"No."

"And you do need a job. Quite desperately?"

"I do," The young woman confirmed, a strange sense of unease rippling through her as she considered exactly how this man could have gathered such information without her having mentioned a word of it, herself. It was more than a little unnerving, truth be told, though even as uncertain as the reality made her, she could tell, somehow, that the man's apparent ability to read the gravity of her situation was not a threat. Not really.

She could not explain exactly how she knew that, of course, but she chose to accept it anyway, green eyes meeting her companion's own blue ones for a moment of silence before she broke it once more.

"I seem to have—mismanaged some funds."

"Say no more, my dear," The man assured, holding up a hand to forestall any further attempts at explanation, and sending the girl a warm smile that surprised her, to say the least, "I can't guarantee your work will be entirely—regular, of course, but perhaps you would not mind so much, hmm?"

"No. No, I wouldn't mind at all."

"Very good. Very good, indeed. And when would you like to start?"

"As—as soon as you would want me," The girl stated, eyes blown wide in surprise at the unexpected turn this conversation had taken, though she still had the sense to acknowledge the vast sense of relief that had spread through her within seconds of the man's sudden change of heart, "I—I really don't have any other obligations, to speak of, so—"

"Tomorrow morning, then? Say, eight o'clock?"

"Wonderful."

Turning back to the door, the young woman prepared to leave for a second time, this time feeling far more light-hearted than she had initially. She still could not explain the man's rather sudden change of heart, of course, any more than she could come up with a logical reason for his apparent knowledge of her circumstances such as they were. But, never one to turn down an opportunity over a simple lack of understanding of the full truth behind it, she was prepared to do whatever she could to maintain this chance at gainful employment, her progress out onto the street only stalling as the man's voice reached her ears once more just as her foot crossed over the threshold to the shop.

"Forgive me, but—I seem to have forgotten to ask after your name," He said, curiosity apparent in his tone, though his expression belied absolutely nothing of the thoughts that were running a mile a minute through his mind in response to this girl's sudden appearance in his shop, "So rude of me, I'm sorry."

"Oh, it's quite alright. It's Fiona. Fiona Matheson."

"Right. Well, Fiona, it has been a genuine pleasure to meet you. You may call me Aziraphale."

Choosing not to comment on the oddness of the name the shop owner had given her, the girl chose instead to manage a simple smile, her desire to avoid doing anything to make this man change his mind about her employment at the forefront of her mind. In truth, she was half-tempted to fear that in a moment she would have woken up, and the entire affair would have been a dream, leaving her once again back at square one. And so, in order to avoid such a thing, she chose instead to exit the shop, and rejoin the rest of the civilians milling about on the sidewalk, smile still in place as she began the trek toward home.

For now, at least, it seemed she had found the solution to a rather detrimental problem…

And yet, she just might have stepped into an even bigger one, as well.

…


	2. Day Zero

(August 2, 2008)

Over a year later, Fiona found that she had rather settled in to life as an 'employee' of A. Z Fell's bookshop, the eccentricities she had observed in relation to its owner notwithstanding. He was a sweet man, that much she had gleaned from her very first day on the job. And in spite of the fact that she had yet to actually sell a book, which was, admittedly, rather strange, she never found herself in want of anything to do, even if that something happened to be sitting on the sofa in the little back room the bookshop had to offer, drinking tea and chatting with the owner, himself.

In spite of the sometimes unsociable attitude he seemed to adopt when it came to a customer who found themselves too close to one of his more prized tomes, Aziraphale, or 'Zee', as Fiona had affectionately dubbed him, was quite the conversationalist. More often than not, the two of them would spend hours talking about the first thing that came to their minds, whether or not it had anything even remotely to do with good literature. In truth, Fiona was a bit surprised to discover that her employer, such as he was, held a remarkably broader view on the world and its day to day intricacies than she had initially believed, having pegged him as the sort who had not ventured very far from their own front door if they had any say in the matter.

The reality, she supposed, just gave proof to the old saying that one should not judge a book by its cover.

Smiling a bit at the thought, the young woman shifted the bag of muffins she had procured along with her coffee, and a tea for her employer into her right hand so she could use the other to open the bookshop's door. As usual, the soft tinkling of the bells hanging above reached her ears, in addition to the muted hum of music playing on the old gramophone nearby. In addition to his rather dated taste in books, Aziraphale appeared to have an equally unique taste in music—not that Fiona minded, as she had been rather more prone to listen to tunes from her parents' youth than her own. That was another thing they discussed often, she supposed, woven in amongst whatever book he had recommended for her, and her latest tiff with her upstairs neighbor, Ned. And, as she maneuvered around a trestle table piled high with various books on prophecy throughout the ages, Fiona found herself shaking her head in open amusement, the heels of her boots clicking against the hard wood floor as she headed toward the back room.

"Zee—got some tea for you, and muffins," She called, remembering at the last moment to shift the coffee she had purchased for her own consumption back to her free hand so she would not spill anything in the process of moving about, "They had that cherry chip you fancy so much—"

"Did they? Wonderful, thank you."

"Not a problem. Just so long as you save one of the chocolate ones for me."

"Exactly how many did you purchase, my dear?" Aziraphale inquired, aware of the almost immediate non-committal shrug that Fiona gave in response while she was otherwise occupied with handing him his tea, and placing the bag of muffins upon a nearby table.

"Enough."

"Always you seek to tempt me."

"And yet you still keep me around."

"Well—you are rather useful with the computer."

"Good to know I'm decent at something," Fiona teased, managing a sip of her coffee, and exhaling in a satisfied sigh as the familiar warmth of the liquid seemed to spread through her veins, "I'd hate to think you were saddled with ineptitude, and had just been too nice to say anything about it."

"You are most certainly not inept, Fiona."

"Glad to hear it. Anything in particular on the docket for today?"

"What would you say to cleaning the upper floor? Perhaps, if we're lucky, we can finish early, and have time for a bite of lunch."

Stifling a grin in response to the almost instinctive tendency that her employer had for turning their conversation towards contemplation of their next meal, Fiona simply nodded in agreement with his plan, her attention turning to the bag of muffins upon the table so she could grab a chocolate one before turning to head towards the stairs. If she were being honest with herself, she adored this little shop, and its owner, far more than was probably healthy considering most normal humans rarely felt such enthusiasm for their jobs. Each day there always seemed to be something new to occupy her time, whether it was conversation, actual work, or some combination of the two. And as the soft creak of the stairs behind her reached her ears to signify that Aziraphale had moved to follow after her with his own muffin and tea in hand, Fiona found herself permitting another faint smile to toy at her lips as she took another sip of her coffee, and mentally prepared herself for the task at hand.

Once again, she was forced to acknowledge exactly how fortunate she was to have been granted the opportunity she now possessed, and she knew even then that she would never have traded it for the world.

…

Some hours later, although admittedly after a rather lengthy pause for the aforementioned lunch, Fiona found herself seated on the upper floor of the bookshop once more, thumbing through a book on the supposedly lesser known aspects of fine dining while her employer remained below, attempting to shoo away a few last-minute stragglers. Even over a year later, she still marveled, sometimes, at how adamant Aziraphale seemed to be about keeping less than savory sorts away from his prized books—or rather, every single book within the shop.

Of course, more often than not it truly did seem that everyone that came in through the front doors was 'unsavory' in one way or another, and on more than one occasion, Fiona caught herself wondering exactly how her employer managed to pay her at all.

Chuckling to herself and returning her attention to her book once more as the soft tinkle of the bells above the door signified the last of the customers had left for the day, Fiona found herself jumping as the sudden ringing of the telephone broke her concentration before she had even finished a sentence. A muffled grunt of displeasure reached her ears from the direction of the back room, indicating that Aziraphale had been in the process of venturing back there for something, only to find himself interrupted, as well. And so, after reaching for the small slip of paper she had grabbed to mark her place without damaging any of the pages in the book at hand, Fiona hauled herself to her feet and placed the book back on the shelf, before moving towards the stairs and heading down to tend to the phone.

"I'll get it, Zee," She informed, taking the small hum of approval from somewhere out of sight as means to believe he had heard her, and appreciated her decision all in one. With that in mind, she hurried down the rest of the stairs, and made her way towards the phone, exhaling in a rush as she arrived, and hoping that she would not sound too winded as she answered as calmly as she could, "A. Z. Phale books, how can I help you?"

"It's me. We have to—what?"

"Who's me?"

"Who're you?"

"You first," Fiona evaded, twining the phone cord around the index finger of her free hand, and turning just a bit to cock her hip against the edge of the table that the phone sat upon, "Can I get your name?"

"Er—listen, it's really not important. I need to speak to Aziraphale."

"I'm afraid I can't pass you along until I get your name."

"For Satan's sake," The man groaned, the unique oath causing one of Fiona's brows to quirk up, though she did not get the chance to question him on the choice as he was speaking once again, "Crowley. Can I speak to Aziraphale now?"

"If you're calling about a book, I'm afraid we're closed," Fiona cautioned, only to find herself cut off by the man's rather abrupt reply.

"I'm not."

"Alright. Just a moment then," The young woman relented, somehow knowing that she was not about to get any more in the way of information from the caller on the other end of the line, and choosing to remove the phone from her ear, and muffle the mouthpiece with one hand before calling for her employer, who was still otherwise occupied in the back room, "Zee—call for you."

"Did you tell whoever it is we're already closed?"

"I did. He didn't seem inclined to listen. Or to talk about books, for that matter…"

"What name did he give you?"

"Crowley."

"Oh. Right. Yes, I'll take that. Thank you," Aziraphale murmured, his expression troubled, to say the least, as he took the phone from Fiona's grasp, and managing an obviously strained smile for her benefit before going on, "If you wouldn't mind, my dear, I was just preparing to turn off the computer for the evening—"

"Sure thing," Fiona agreed, glancing at her employer curiously for just a moment, before heading off towards the back room, as instructed. Truthfully, she was half-tempted to linger by the door to that room in order to ascertain if she stood a chance at overhearing any of the conversation that would take place after her departure. But good sense seemed inclined to override her innate curiosity, at least in this particular instance, forcing her to move into the back room and towards the computer, while her teeth chewed incessantly at the inside of her cheek. Within mere moments, she had powered the device down, and turned off the tiny lamp on the desk, as well. And, before she knew it, she found herself hesitating in the semi-darkness, unsure of whether or not it would be appropriate for her to venture back out onto the main floor, only to find that Aziraphale appeared to have already concluded the phone call, judging by his sudden appearance in the doorway.

"All ready, dear?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am," Fiona confirmed, moving to follow him as he turned on a heel and prepared to depart, her eyes practically drilling holes into the back of his cream-colored jacket as she fought against the desire to know exactly what that phone call had been about. Of course, she knew everyone had their secrets. That there were plenty of people that didn't just go around airing out all their metaphorical dirty laundry for the entire world to see. But even that knowledge was not entirely sufficient to render her capable of forgoing her curiosity entirely, her expression tentative as she approached the shop door at Aziraphale's side, and exhaled in an effort at calming her sudden nerves before she spoke.

"So that call—everything alright?"

"What—oh. That," Aziraphale said, a furrow marring his brow for a moment as he opened the door, and gestured for the young woman to step through so that he might do the same, shutting and locking it behind them both, "Yes. Right. Fine. Everything's fine."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. It was just a bit—unexpected. That's all."

"He a friend of yours? Crowley, I mean," The young woman prodded, hoping she were not in the middle of stepping over the line, asking questions about things that she really would be better off not knowing anything about. From Aziraphale's expression, however, he did not appear to be offended by the question, at least not on the surface. And so Fiona was able to simply wait for him to fall into step beside her as they maneuvered around the crowds of civilians on the sidewalk, his answering reply a bit tentative, but not outwardly upset while they walked.

"Of sorts, I suppose. Bit more of an occasional nuisance, really."

"He didn't seem all that friendly, to me."

"No? Well—no, I don't suppose he would."

"Does he disapprove of strangers, then? Or is it just women?"

"Oh, he doesn't mind women," Aziraphale assured, sudden recognition and embarrassment dawning upon his features as he took note of Fiona's almost immediately raised brow, and consequently forcing him to clear his throat as he sought to rectify the implication that had so clearly come on the heels of his remark, "I—erm—well, I didn't mean it like that, of course. What—what made you ask such a question in the first place, my dear?"

"I—nothing important."

"You're certain?"

"Very," Fiona promised, coming to a stop at the corner where her employer usually continued walking straight ahead, while she turned to the right, and towards her small flat, "Don't mind me, Zee, really. Just—I'm just being silly."

For his part, Aziraphale did not seem entirely convinced that she was telling the truth, though mercifully, he did not press her on the matter. Instead, he seemed more than satisfied to simply offer her a faint nod, and a warm smile before he was straightening his jacket, and clearing his throat once again.

"Right. Well, I shall see you tomorrow, then?" He questioned, the hopeful curiosity that was so apparent in his tone bringing an answering smile to Fiona's lips as she noted once again that he held the same sort of apparent hope that she was satisfied with their arrangement that he had after the very first day they had worked together. As always, she gave him an answering nod, this time choosing to reach out a hand to grab for his own and give it a small squeeze, before she was turning the corner that would lead to her flat, and calling back over her shoulder while she went.

"Of course. Nowhere else I'd rather be."

He might not ever know of the reasoning behind those words, but Fiona did. And truer words had never been spoken.

…

Fiona had only just come to the door of her flat when she heard the sound of footsteps behind her, her hand stalling on the doorknob as a familiar, if not unwelcome voice reached her hears.

"You're back late."

"I wasn't aware I had a curfew."

"You—you don't. Of course you don't," The voice, which belonged to one Simon Bates, resident busy body, and her upstairs neighbor that entered into so many discussions with her employer replied, closing the distance between them until he was leaning against the wall mere centimeters away from her doorframe, while his hands fitted themselves inside his trouser pockets, "I was just—just getting worried."

"Worried about what?"

"You, what else?"

"You don't need to worry about me, Simon," Fiona said, unable to entirely keep the exasperation from her voice as she succeeded in turning her key in the lock, and shouldered the door open as it had a tendency to stick if one was too lenient in their efforts, "I can take care of myself."

"Doesn't mean I'll stop worrying," Simon pressed, following Fiona into the small foyer of her flat, clearly unaware that her attempt to shut the door behind her was a clear indication that she did not want company at the present, "You're a woman living on your own, Fee."

"Don't call me that."

"Right, sorry. Keep forgetting. Why don't you like that nickname, anyway? I think it's—well—rather fitting."

"Trust me. It's not," Fiona deadpanned, toeing off her boots near the door, and padding down the short hallway to make her way to the kitchen instead, "Listen, Simon, I had kind of a long day at the shop…"

"So, you'll be wanting a nightcap."

"No. I'll be wanting sleep."

"I—oh," Simon stammered, blue eyes widening as he caught on to the apparent aggravation in Fiona's expression, though he did not make any secret of the fact he had not a clue why she was suddenly so upset, "No company, then."

"Preferably not," The young woman confessed, frowning a bit as she realized she was, in fact, being rather rude, though knowing Simon's tendency to read into even the smallest of situations, and take them in an entirely incorrect way, she was not exactly willing to entertain the idea of allowing him to spend any significant amount of time in her flat for fear he would start thinking they were more than simple neighbors, "Have to be up early tomorrow, as well."

"Right. Well—perhaps another time, then?"

"Perhaps."

Seeming to think a nod would be sufficient as a means of parting, Simon sent Fiona what he clearly must have thought was an endearing wink before turning on a heel and heading back to the door, only to cause a huff to escape her lips as he continued on down the hall without ever closing the door behind him. Forced to do so herself, Fiona soon found that she was grumbling under her breath about persistent neighbors, and their abhorrent social skills, while simultaneously moving back down the hall and bypassing the kitchen this time in favor of simply moving to the small den and flopping dejectedly upon the sofa, instead…

It was not until approximately an hour later, after she had managed to summon the mental fortitude to reach for the remote and switch on the television so that she could lose herself in whatever program happened to be on at the time that she realized Simon could have only known of her return home if he had been watching for her arrival from his apartment window that overlooked the street below.

Great. Just bloody great…

…


	3. Dream In Flames

(August 3, 2008)

"So—Zee. What the Heaven is that all about, Angel?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Oh, but I think you do," The demon persisted, narrowing his eyes behind the sunglasses, and fixing the angel seated across from him nursing his own glass of wine with a stare that was more than a little unnervingly determined, "Go on—you know I'll just find out on my own anyway."

"You will do no such thing," Aziraphale protested, finally glancing up from his apparent fascination over his wine, and stifling a small hiccup before going on, "I simply hired someone to help around the shop. I fail to see why that is so fascinating a thing, Crowley."

"It is when you work so hard at keeping her a secret. How long have you had her?"

"A year. And I haven't had anything."

"A—you've had this girl, lounging about for an entire year and you never thought to mention it?" Crowley exclaimed, flopping back against the cushions of the sofa in the back room of the bookshop, and grimacing a bit as the sudden motion caused a bit of the wine in his own glass to slosh over the sides, "Now it all makes sense."

"As I said, I did not think it was important. And, erm—what all makes sense?"

"Why you've been so secretive this last year! You've been—fraternizing—"

"Oh, for goodness sake!" The angel huffed, squirming a bit so that he was hunched in his chair just a bit more, and taking a sip of wine in hopes that the minor delay would give the demon reason enough to stop watching him so intently—as if he could truly ever have such luck, where Crowley was concerned, "I have not been fraternizing. She needed a job, and I gave her one."

"I'm sure you did."

"Crowley, be serious!"

"I am. I'm sure this girl will be very happy with whatever jobs you have her doing," Crowley assured, sending a conspiratorial wink Aziraphale's way, and finding himself rather more than a little pleased that the angel had the good graces to flush just a bit in response, "So, when do I meet her?"

"What?"

"Well I think it's only fair I do, Angel. Make sure you aren't in over your head."

"I am most certainly not in over my head. And you don't. Meet her, I mean," Aziraphale replied, once again allowing his attention to drift to his wine, and cursing how his cheeks burned despite the fact he knew full well Crowley had gotten the wrong impression, "The poor dear has enough hellish influences in her life, and I'll not be subjecting her to more."

"Hellish influences? Another demon been following her around, then?"

"Well—no."

"Ghost? Vampire? Some other creature of nightmares?"

"No."

"Then I fail to see what the problem is," Crowley shrugged, leaning forward to reach for the bottle of wine set upon the table between the sofa and the chair Aziraphale occupied to pour himself another glass, "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, right?"

"Actually, no, as neither one of us have any friends in common at all."

"What if I promise to be on my best behavior?"

"Absolutely not. For one thing, I doubt you know what 'best behavior' even means."

"Words wound, Angel."

"Yes, well, I have a fairly decent idea you will recover far sooner than she would," Aziraphale said, frowning at the mere thought of someone like Fiona encountering someone like Crowley, and suppressing a shudder as he came up with only a hundred or so ways in which it could go wrong. It wasn't that Crowley was altogether bad. Not really, even though if anyone were to mention such a thing to his face, it may or may not be the last thing they ever said, at least with all four limbs still attached. But, even though she had not yet said as much to him directly, Aziraphale had already gathered that Fiona's life, such as it was, had not always been a pleasant one, and he knew more than nearly anyone that exposing such a person to someone like Crowley would be like holding an open flame over a powder keg and expecting it not to eventually explode.

It was bad enough that she had become so accustomed to him, even not knowing what he really was, and the angel was not about to push her into the deep end, so to speak, by adding another non-human to her life as though they were simply playing a game.

"She has no need to be involved in our lives any more than she already is, Crowley. I do not feel there is a need to discuss it any further."

"Suit yourself, Angel. But you keep her around long enough, and she'll probably figure out exactly what it is you don't want her to know, anyway."

"Then I will face that moment when it comes," Aziraphale promised, frowning a bit as he realized Crowley was, in all likelihood, right in his assumption that keeping Fiona in the dark, as it were, would likely only last for so long before someone—him, in all honesty—made a slip, and everything came tumbling out into the open. But regardless of that all too unavoidable reality, the angel was still a bit more than reluctant to speed the matter up, the slight burn that the wine made against his throat as he downed the remainder of the liquid that was in his glass provoking a wince before he stood, and reached for the bottle on the table to stow it away for safekeeping.

"We should get all this cleaned up. The table at Mon Plaisir won't wait forever."

For now, at least, it appeared that the conversation was, rather mercifully, closed…

…

Jolted awake by a fit of harsh coughs, the girl forced her eyes open while still gasping for breath, her hand clutching at the fabric of her t-shirt as tears burned tracks down the flesh of her cheeks. With brow furrowed, she struggled to orient herself to her surroundings, the billowing smoke that snaked its way into her bedroom from beneath the doorframe causing her heart to pound in alarm. Suddenly, it was all starting to click together—the sting of the cut upon her cheek as salty tears moved across the wound, and the pounding in her head that she could only attribute to the collision with the corner of one of the cupboards in the kitchen mere hours before bringing the memory of her spur of the moment decision to get between her father and her mum into sharp relief. She had tried to stop him. She had tried to calm him down.

And it had backfired far faster than she was prepared for as all of his anger and righteous indignation was redirected onto her before she could even attempt to defend herself at all.

She had retreated into her own room not long after he had departed, leaving her mother huddled into a ball on the sofa, and her, cowering on the floor in the kitchen with her hand to her still bleeding cheek until he had disappeared. And now, the girl suddenly found herself fighting against the panic that clawed its way up her throat and threatened to overwhelm her, her hand reaching for the doorknob only to recoil with a startled shriek every bit as quickly as it scalded the skin of her palm.

"Mum! MUM!" She called, pounding on the door with her other hand, only to fall into another fit of coughing as the scratchiness of the words as they left her throat threatened to close it altogether. Her eyes burned so fiercely that she could hardly see her surroundings as she whirled around in search of something she could use to cover her hand before trying to open the door again. She knew it was foolish, of course, some vague memory of a long ago class in school on fire safety flittering in the back of her mind, only to be squashed by a resurgence in her panic as a shrill screaming reached her ears…

She knew that scream like the back of her hand, and even in spite of the warmth in her room that had become stifling in seconds, the girl felt her blood go cold in her veins as a result.

"MUM!" She screamed again, bolting towards her bed, and wrestling one of the pillowcases free of the pillow inside so that she could wrap the fabric around her hand and make her way back towards the door, "Mum, hang—hang on—"

Finally, after what seemed like ages, the girl succeeded in wrenching the door open, her hand lifting to use the pillowcase to shield her mouth and nose as she fumbled along the hallway towards the sound of her mother's cries with her free hand grazing against the wall as she went. She was only vaguely aware of the flames eating away at the opposite wall, occasionally licking towards her as though they sought to draw her into the inferno as one might embrace an old friend. But, as she was so intent upon reaching her mother, and remaining upright herself, the girl hardly even took notice when the hem of her t-shirt started to catch in the blaze, her feet stumbling over the crumpled edge of the area rug in the den, and causing her to fall to her knees so abruptly that her entire body jolted with the impact, and her hand flew out to catch her fall on the nearest object she could find.

"Mum," She croaked, once again recoiling her hand as she realized she had placed it upon the arm of the sofa, which was now smoldering, as well, her eyes doing their best to see amidst the smoke as she searched the room for any sign of her mother's presence. All too quickly, she found what she was looking for, the sound of a soft thud drawing her eyes toward the opposite side of the room. A crumpled shape was now curled in a heap upon the floor, vague movements and sharp gasps echoing in the girl's ears as she fought against the bile that had risen to the back of her throat, and forced herself to crawl across the floor, instead. It was her mother, eyes blown wide with panic and pain as the fire that had caught at the hem of her jeans spread up her legs, and towards her torso. And, as the girl's eyes widened, glistening with renewed tears, she found herself brought up short as she watched her mother's hand lift weakly from the floor, extending towards her, though her own eyes were fixed upon a point somewhere above her daughter's shoulder.

"Take—her—"

Before the girl could even attempt to reach for her mother's hand, or do anything to put out the fire that was so very quickly devouring her, alive, however, she found herself being pulled back by a pair of startlingly strong arms, her body starting to thrash around in protest as she realized this unknown person was pulling her away from her mother without a second thought. Suddenly, her mother's words made sense—whoever this was, it was clear that the older woman wanted her daughter saved, with little to no thought that in so doing, she was all but condemning herself to death in the process. And in response to the panic that buzzed through her veins in response, the girl continued to struggle against the hold of the person who was dragging her away, a brief flare of satisfaction reaching her as a lucky hit of her heel against the stranger's shin provoked a muffled grunt, and caused them to stumble just a bit in response. The girl was prepared to use such a thing to her advantage, of course, her body twisting against the stranger's hold in hopes that she could wriggle free while they sought to regain their footing. But before she could make any headway in that regard, a strange sort of creaking reached her ears, prompting her to look up with her mouth open wide in a soundless scream as one of the beams from the ceiling came crashing towards her…

It was only later, when she was sprawled beneath the body of whoever it was that had attempted to get her free that she noticed it—

The stranger had been peering down at her with peculiar, almost golden eyes, and the girl had just been prepared to renew her struggles against him, only to find that her body had other ideas, and she slipped into unconsciousness without a second thought.

….

Jolted into wakefulness with a sudden gasp, Fiona forced herself upright against the cushions of the sofa, her back twinging in protest after having been curled in an awkward position in her sleep. She had not dreamed of that day—that man—in months, she realized, and she would have been lying had she pretended that reliving it now was not more than a little unsettling, to say the least. She ought to have died that day. Her mother had died, that day. And, no matter how many times she tried to let go of the anger—the guilt that she felt over exactly how many innocent people had been thrown into harm's way even outside of the risk posed to herself, and her mother—Fiona could never seem to forget the fact that, after causing the blaze, himself, her father had walked away and left both her, and her mother to die.

She had not seen him since then, of course, not that he had ever made any attempt to physically see her in the days that followed, the few letters she had received having been tossed into the garbage as soon as they were delivered, despite the fact that the return address they bore was clearly recognizable as a rehabilitation facility nearby. Whether she ought to have believed that he would give sobriety a try or not, Fiona just could not trust that it would stick. Not after the countless failures and broken promises that had come before. Every single time she had dared to hope, he had dashed those hopes with all the inevitability of an oncoming storm. And when she had finally had enough—when she had finally confronted him about his inability to keep those promises, he had, quite literally, caused her entire life to come crashing down around her ears.

Shaking herself before the memory gain an even stronger foothold in her mind than it already had, however, Fiona swung her legs over the edge of the sofa, and forced herself to stand, a wince passing over her features once again as her bones seemed to crack and pop in protest. Unbidden, her hand moved to massage the skin at the base of her spine, the thin fabric of her shirt allowing her to feel the faintest hints of the ridge of scar tissue that spanned from her lower back, all the way to the tip of her left shoulder. It had served as a constant reminder of that day ever since she had woken in the hospital bed alone, her muscles still seeming to burn beneath her skin even though she had long since been pulled from the flames. And she suspected it would always serve as further proof that, no matter how many times her father tried to right his wrongs, she could never—would never—trust him again.

Somewhat steeled by the thought, Fiona padded into the kitchen, hoping to prepare a cup of coffee before stepping into the shower, and heading off to the bookshop for another day of work. But, while she turned from the coffeemaker with the carafe in hand to fill it with water from the sink, her eyes strayed to the clock situated above the stove.

She ought to have been at the shop half an hour ago…

With a startled oath leaving her lips as she nearly dropped the carafe in her haste setting it back upon the counter, Fiona dashed back into the den and headed towards her bedroom, her hands already attempting to coerce her hair into a sloppy bun that she secured with one of the hair ties hanging round her wrist, while she moved to her closet in search of a fresh pair of clothes. Once that was done, she changed as quickly as she could, pausing at the dresser just beside the door to spray on some perfume. And, without even so much as a backward glance, she threw on her boots from the day before and dashed out the door, not even stopping for long enough to truly ensure that it had locked securely behind her before she was bolting towards the elevator at the end of the hall, and hoping with all she had that her employer would not react too unfavorably to her being late.

Though she could not even begin to explain why, the job at the bookshop had given her the closest thing she could come to real peace and contentment, and she'd be damned if she lost it over a stupid mistake…

…

Returning to the bookshop after the impromptu brunch, such as it was, with Crowley, Aziraphale found himself more than a little concerned that, although the shop had been closed, Fiona had not yet made an appearance, and it was nearly noon. She had never been absent before. Never even a tardy, in fact, now that he thought about it. And although he honestly would never have faulted her for desiring a day off, he still could not entirely shake his concern that something may have happened to waylay her, particularly in light of the fact that she had seemed almost eager for the prospect of coming back again a mere day before.

In response to the recollection, the angel made his way inside the shop and toward the back room, setting the small box of crepes he had brought back for her to try on the desk beside the computer so that he could remove his jacket and hang it on the coatrack a few feet away. Instinctively, he turned to venture back to the old gramophone to select a record to play, the soft crackling that the device gave off as it started to spin not quite succeeding in provoking a smile to his lips as it always had, every other day before. But, before he could proceed much further as it pertained to the day to day routine that came as second nature in running his shop, the soft sound of tinkling bells above the door drew his attention in that direction, relief becoming readily apparent upon his features as he recognized the girl who had entered immediately.

"Fiona!" He enthused, aware of the presence of deep circles beneath her eyes as they widened in response to his eager greeting, "I was beginning to worry, my dear—"

"I'm sorry, Zee. I'm so, so sorry. I—I fell asleep on the sofa, and missed my alarm, and—I swear, on my life, it'll never happen again."

"It's quite alright, Fiona. It happens to the best of us, every now and again," Aziraphale assured, privately startled by how frantic the young woman seemed that he would take her delayed arrival as something worthy of punishment. Even from this distance, he could tell she was trembling. That something not altogether pleasant was lingering in her mind, though she was so clearly doing her best to appear outwardly as though nothing was amiss. And so, although he had never openly pressed her, before, for details of anything that had happened in her life prior to her arrival in his shop seeking employment, Aziraphale chose to do so now, his voice softening a bit as he approached her as slowly as he dared, and noted how she seemed to recoil almost immediately in response.

"Did—did something happen, my dear?"

"Happen? I—no," Fiona stammered, inwardly cursing the flush that rose to her cheeks in response to the lie, and shifting awkwardly on her feet as she risked a glance at her employer's face, and rather quickly noticed that he did not seem entirely convinced of the truthfulness in her reply, "Nothing happened."

"Because you know you can tell me if it did," The angel pressed, frowning as he watched Fiona avert her gaze to the hardwood flooring, while her teeth came out to nibble at her lower lip, "Anything that's ever bothering you, I would be more than pleased to lend an ear."

"I know. I do. And I—I appreciate it, really. But this—Zee, it really is nothing."

"You are certain?"

"I am," Fiona confirmed, touched by Aziraphale's genuine worry over her apparently not so successful ability to compose herself prior to entering the shop, and yet still finding herself not entirely willing to disclose what exactly it was that was troubling her when she could hardly understand it, herself. The only other time she had mentioned what she recalled about the fire, the men investigating it had looked at her as though she had sprouted an extra pair of ears on the spot. And it had not taken her long to determine that keeping that particular memory to herself was, perhaps the wiser course of action, even now, when she knew that Aziraphale would probably be one of the persons that was least likely to judge her for anything she said in his company, "I just—I think I'd really just like to get to work, if that's okay."

"Certainly, dear," Aziraphale replied, allowing Fiona to move past him, and guiding her towards the back room in spite of how she seemed prepared to simply head to the upper floor to continue the organizational work she had been doing the day before, "But before you do, I think there might be a crepe or two requiring your attention. They won't keep forever, you know."

He might have been mistaken, he supposed, but in spite of her apparent discomfort, Aziraphale could have sworn he saw the faintest flickers of a smile pass over her lips as she allowed him to lead her to the back room, and caught sight of the small box sitting upon the desk…

…


	4. Demonic Intervention

(August 10, 2008)

In the days that followed the recurrence of the dream, Fiona found that she was almost terrified to fall asleep again, her already strong dependence upon caffeine seeming to quadruple in her efforts to avoid spending too much time out of touch with the world. She was successful, she thought, only managing an hour or three each night, and never long enough to slip into anything even remotely resembling a dream, good or bad. But no matter how many times she tried to convince herself—no matter how many times she tried to surreptitiously refill her coffee mug when Aziraphale was not looking—Fiona knew that her decision was starting to take its toll, another wide yawn sneaking up on her before she could do a thing to stop it.

And this particular yawn just happened to catch someone else's attention…

Damn.

"Are you quite alright, my dear?" Aziraphale inquired, frowning a bit as the question appeared to have made the young woman flinch, and turn to look at him with wide, vaguely disoriented eyes. She had been quiet these last few days, he recalled. Not the sort of quiet that they both seemed to enjoy when they finished whatever they had been doing for the day earlier than anticipated, and had the time to hunker down for a few hours of quiet reading with cocoa or tea readily available. No, this sort of quiet was different. Troubled. Almost dangerous, if he were to be honest with himself, and no matter how many times he had sworn to whatever entity might be listening that he would not press Fiona for any detail about her life that she was not willing to give, Aziraphale found that task to be increasingly more difficult to hold to, his expression softening just a bit as he moved closer to where the young woman sat at the desk before the computer so that he could lean casually against the surface while watching carefully as an infinite number of emotions flickered across her face all at once.

"M'fine. I—I'm fine," The girl stammered, a flush adorning her cheeks as she met Aziraphale's worried gaze for only a moment, before averting her eyes to her knees as though the fabric of her faded jeans was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world, "Why do you ask?"

"Well, you haven't seemed—entirely yourself, these last few days, and I was just hoping it was not anything I had—had said, or done, that was troubling you."

"What? No! No, that's not it at all!" Fiona exclaimed, forcing herself to meet her employer's warm blue eyes head-on, despite the embarrassment that still lingered in her mind over how easily he seemed to have sensed her distress, "It's nothing you've done at all! You've been—well—you've been—"

"I've been what, my dear?"

"Bloody wonderful. For taking me in and all, and I just—I'm sorry if I ever made it seem unappreciated."

"Oh, you certainly haven't," Aziraphale assured, placing a comforting hand upon the young woman's shoulder, and finding himself rather more than a little pleased that she seemed to lean into the contact, rather than pulling away, "Believe me, you are about the farthest thing from unappreciative that I can think of."

"Well that's good to know."

"And of course, you know if—if anything is troubling you—whether it is me, or something else entirely, you—you are always free to tell me."

"I know, Zee. I do," Fiona acknowledged, her expression seeming to indicate that she was weighing her options, wondering whether or not she should just give in and tell him all of the silly little things that had been plaguing her mind, lately, or if she should just keep silent, and carry on with her day. No matter how foolish it seemed—no matter how she was all but certain it was unprofessional—she had developed a sort of fondness for this man that went beyond the simple respect an employee felt for the person who had hired them. In truth, she had rather quickly come to see him as a friend, though she felt silly for the notion, and had of course been determined to avoid letting that thought make itself known in any of their interactions to date. But a simple employer would never hold such genuine concern for someone working under him. At least, none of the employers she had known in the past would have. And so, in spite of herself, Fiona found a soft sigh escaping her lips as her shoulders slumped, and she rested her head in her hands, her words coming out softer than she had intended, though Aziraphale still seemed capable of hearing her perfectly.

"I guess I just haven't been sleeping that well, lately."

"More trouble with your neighbor?" Aziraphale mused, privately wondering over the prospect of paying whoever this man was a little visit, himself, only to find that he was shaken out of the thought by a soft laugh, before Fiona spoke once again.

"Somewhat. But he's not all of it. I—it's silly."

"For it to be troubling you this much, I doubt that it is anything of the sort."

"It's just a dream," Fiona admitted, frowning a bit as the weight of what she was about to disclose settled in her mind, and she found herself struggling against an almost instinctive desire to avoid telling the entire truth, no matter how she knew she could trust Aziraphale with it without a doubt, "I thought I'd kicked it, to be honest, but it came back, and—well, it doesn't seem to be letting go."

"Do you—wish to tell me about it?" Aziraphale inquired, backtracking almost immediately as he registered the immediate tensing of Fiona's shoulders, as though the idea were as preposterous as him suddenly deciding to start tap dancing on the spot, "You do not have to, of course."

"No, I—I think I might need to. To tell someone, I mean. I just don't really know where to begin."

"Wherever you feel most comfortable, I would imagine. Take however long you need, my dear. We have all the time in the world."

Managing a weak nod, and an equally tremulous smile, Fiona glanced down at her lap for a moment as she attempted to gather her thoughts, to better explain exactly what it was that had her so out of sorts. In truth, she was more than a little concerned that her description would not do the ordeal any sort of justice at all, and that her employer would simply find her to be a silly little girl for allowing herself to become so preoccupied with meaningless things. But, before she could come up with some excuse to remain silent, Fiona cleared her throat and forced her gaze to meet Aziraphale's once again, her voice trembling just a bit, regardless of her desire to remain calm.

"It was the day my mother—the day she died," She began, taking some measure of solace in Aziraphale's steady presence at her side, and the empathetic expression that appeared to have taken up permanent residence upon his face, as it gave her the fortitude she needed to go on, "I keep reliving the fire. Waking up, hardly able to breathe. And then watching—watching as she—as she burned, and trying to get to her, only—"

"Only what, my dear?"

"Only someone pulled me away. Someone I had completely forgotten about until the dreams started up again."

"A fireman, perhaps?"

"No. No, I don't think so. He didn't seem the sort, to be honest."

"A good Samaritan, then," Aziraphale suggested, aware of the almost immediate shake of the head that Fiona gave by way of denial, and finding that his brow had furrowed in obvious curiosity as he struggled to discern exactly who this person could be, that they would willingly walk into a blazing fire to pull a complete stranger to safety, "Do you remember anything about him?"

"Just—just the one thing," Fiona replied, frowning as she debated with herself over whether or not her employer would start to question her sanity if she spoke the truth about the image that was now burned in her mind. It made no sense, of course. No one had eyes like that. Not unless they had done some sort of modification, surgically, for the sake of maintaining a very unique sense of style. But before she could think up some other falsified thing that might prove memorable about the man who had saved her life, it seemed, her tongue had gotten the better of her, the truth escaping her lips in a rush while she avoided Aziraphale's gaze and fixed her attention upon a small chip in the otherwise unblemished wood of the desk she sat beside, instead.

"His eyes. They were—well, they were impossible, really. I probably wasn't seeing straight, but they were—"

"They were what?"

"Gold. They were the most beautiful shade of gold I had ever seen."

"Gold," Aziraphale repeated, a sudden, sinking sensation making itself known in the center of his chest as the single, very likely explanation for such a feature catching the girl's attention in the middle of what must have been an unbearable trauma rose to the forefront of his mind, "But that—well it seems a highly unlikely color—"

"I know. I do. Like I said, I probably wasn't seeing straight," Fiona rushed on, a flush burning the skin of her cheeks as she hurried to assure her companion that she was not off her rocker—not really, anyway, "I'd been staring at flames for a good while, anyway. Maybe it—I dunno—scalded my retinas, or something."

"Maybe," The angel agreed, relieved, at least a bit, by the fact that at least on the surface, Fiona appeared to have been content to attribute her observation to everything else going on at the time making her powers of observation sub-par, to say the least, though that relief did not quite render him foolish enough to think that she would not ask questions, if she thought they were warranted at a later date, "You—surely, you don't think he might have—have started the fire?"

"What? No! No, not at all."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely," The young woman confirmed, noticing the perplexed expression that flitted across Aziraphale's features for a moment, and deciding that in spite of her reluctance, full disclosure of the exact reason for the fire would prove more beneficial than allowing him to think ill of this man, whoever it was, that had taken it upon himself to save her for reasons as yet unknown, "He—my father is the one that caused it."

"What?"

"He started the fire. He and my mum had been arguing, I got in the middle, and it—it just sort of blew up."

"He purposefully set your home on fire?"

"That's what the—what the examiner said."

"Oh my poor girl," Aziraphale murmured, uncertain of exactly what to do as the confession appeared to have wiped away the last of Fiona's defenses, leaving her powerless to stall the few teardrops that made their way down the pale skin of her cheeks before she could dash them away and avert her gaze in hopes of regaining her composure. He recalled now, hearing of the fire in question. Of the damage it had inflicted upon nearly the entire apartment complex, in the process before it was put out. It was so utterly simple of him, he supposed, to have never made the connection, particularly after the girl had given her surname on the day they first met. But he had been far more concerned about the air of dejection the young girl had carried with her, as she had been prepared to leave his shop that day.

He supposed, now, that all made sense, given her connection to what had become known as one of the greater tragedies Soho had to offer.

"Have you considered—speaking to anyone about this? Anyone besides me, I mean?" The angel questioned, then, watching carefully as Fiona's shoulders rose and fell as she took a steadying breath, before allowing her eyes to meet his once more, "Over the years, I've learned many seem capable of finding relief in getting such things off their chests."

"You mean like—therapy?"

"Well—yes. Please understand, Fiona, I only ask the question out of concern. Certainly not because I think you need it."

"That's encouraging," The young woman quipped, laughing softly in spite of the initial sensation of defensive irritation as soon as she had heard the suggestion leave her companion's lips, "No. I haven't. Everyone around here already knows what happened, anyway."

"And no one has ever tried to help you? Not a one?"

"None, except you, no."

"Well that is just preposterous!" The angel exclaimed, the sudden vigor of his words provoking a curious expression to cross Fiona's features, as though she were genuinely surprised that he would feel such an outpouring of shock and displeasure on her behalf. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that she had always seemed accustomed to being alone. That being separate from the rest of the world came as a sort of second nature to her, whether she enjoyed it or not. It was horrible, he thought, that such a genuinely kind young woman had been forced to endure life in such a way, with no one to turn to, should she need a helping hand.

Once again, he was struck with the certain knowledge that taking her on as an employee, whether he needed one or not, had been the proper decision to make, and before he could fully discern if now was the proper time to do such a thing, the angel was turning and reaching for his jacket where it had been left to hang upon the coatrack, determination stealing its way into his expression while he spoke.

"You, I think, could do with a proper spot of lunch," Aziraphale decided, smiling warmly at Fiona's obviously startled expression, and holding out a hand to waylay any form of protest she might make that she needed to stay and continue on in her work, "I was going to close the shop for the afternoon, anyway."

"You're certain? Because I—I really haven't done all that much today to be taking a break, now."

"Absolutely, my dear. One always thinks better on a full stomach."

Unable to resist the faint grin that tugged at the corner of her mouth in response to the almost predictable response Aziraphale seemed to possess whenever faced with a troubling situation, Fiona stood from her chair, and followed after him as he headed towards the door, her thoughts turning to how abundantly grateful she was for his unflinching ability to seem to sense when she was willing to disclose something, and when she would prefer to keep whatever that something was to herself without a hitch. Truthfully, she had not a clue whether she could ever find herself capable of discussing the fire—discussing anything that her father had done, over the years, to any other soul, besides him. But, whether she did or didn't, she was more than happy to accept the momentary distraction that presented itself in the form of an early lunch, never knowing that while she was allowing to succumb to something not all that different from relief, Aziraphale was thinking of something entirely different…

The decision of what they were to do in the eleven years they had until the impending apocalypse notwithstanding, the angel had suddenly resolved that he would try and find a way to insist that the demon disclose exactly what it was that had him intervening in an apartment fire in Soho, when he was supposed to have been elsewhere without giving Crowley the hint that the very same girl he had rescued was the one now working in his bookshop.

As if such a thing were even possible.

…

(July 8, 2005)

"You are certain he is the one?" The voice inquired, materializing out of thin air next to the tall man with a shock of pale blond hair that was stood on the street corner, peering through the darkness at the man who ambled along the sidewalk across from them with a distinctly inebriated stumble to his steps. He had been watching him move along the street, from bar to bar for the better part of the evening, it seemed, attempting to discern if he were the proper target. A likely recruit for their master. And although he had, in fact, been relishing the opportunity to hand over said new recruit on his own, Hastur found the new arrival not as troublesome as he had initially expected, his dark gaze turning towards the shorter demon standing on his left before he replied.

"He is. Easy prey. His soul was already dancing on a knife's edge long before I arrived."

"Then why stay?"

"Because now I must decide what to do with him to tip him over that edge, Ligur. These things require—careful thought."

"Why did our lord send you, then?"

"Very funny. Ha-ha. Joke all you like," Hastur retorted, sparing a scathing glance for the demon beside him before returning his attention to the man who was now stumbling into his fifth bar of the night, "We will have this man, soon. And, with any luck, his daughter, as well."

"What? Boss never—never said anything about a girl—"

"He did to me. He wants her on our side, when the time comes."

"What time?"

"End times."

"What's he think this girl can do, then?" The other demon—Ligur—asked, skepticism heavy in his tone as he watched the door of the bar the man had just disappeared through with an unusual amount of interest, while his companion replied.

"Dunno. But he seems convinced she's needed, so here I am."

"Here you are. How's it going to happen?"

"How's what going to happen?"

"It. Her. Getting her involved," Ligur spelled out, only just suppressing a sigh of resignation as he watched Hastur's dark eyes widen a bit once he realized what it was his companion had been attempting to reference.

"How do you think?" Hastur quipped, allowing his gaze to stray from the bar, to the human couple that were headed their way, utterly oblivious to the presence of anyone but themselves, "How do such things always happen?"

"With you? Fire, most like. But how do you plan to stop it from—"

"From burning her, as well? You leave that to me. It won't do to start questioning our master's plans, now."

Unable to argue with the statement, such as it was, Ligur managed a curt nod before turning his attention back to the bar across the street, the aforementioned couple passing by without even noticing the presence of the two creatures of Hell in the slightest. It was fortunate, the shorter demon supposed, as they were sent to the surface, so to speak, on specific jobs, not to tarry around performing pointless tasks that could be avoided so long as they were not careless. And although he would have been a fool to pretend as though he was not still curious as to what, exactly, their master's plan was for this supposed girl, the demon settled instead for simply remaining silent.

After all, the boss had never led them wrong, before. If he wanted the girl, he would have her.

And if Hastur were to fail, Ligur thought, then he would see the deed done, himself.

…


	5. Compromise

(July 8, 2005)

Lars Matheson exited the bar, and very nearly landed in a heap on the sidewalk as he stumbled over his own feet after missing the small step that gave ay to the landing, one grimy hand flinging out to catch his fall on the bricks of the wall beside him, while the other lifted to keep his beaten up old hat upon his head. Much to his dismay, he had been cut off after last call, and with nothing else to do after he had downed the last of his umpteenth bottle of gin, he was now forced with the prospect of returning home, his already haggard features screwing up in disgust at the prospect of facing his wife's judgment for a thing he felt he could not control.

He had not intended to be as he was. Not really. But after suffering through a rough childhood, he had always felt perhaps he deserved a bit of the oblivion that was offered by some of his favorite brands of liquor, and he'd be damned if he let anyone tell him otherwise. The voice that seemed to be a near constant companion in the back of his mind didn't seem to have a problem with it, after all. Hell, it even encouraged it, nudging him from bar to bar when he seemed in danger of being cut off in the establishment he occupied at the moment. And, as that voice always said, a night was not well and truly over until he had been able to end the evening with the bartenders, themselves, his head more often than not swimming by that point, as logical thought became almost impossible to maintain.

Such was the case at present as Lars continued to stumble off down the almost deserted street towards home, his thoughts turning dark as he contemplated exactly what awaited him when he arrived there. Elena was difficult, even at the best of times, and Fiona—

Well there were times, Lars was forced to admit, he caught himself wishing she had never been born.

She had been sweet as a child, he supposed, prone to idolizing him in every respect, whether he truly was deserving of such love and awe, or not. But as she had grown, her easy smiles whenever he was in the room seemed to sour, until she soon began to regard him with every bit as much skepticism and disdain as his wife.

Still, they were both his, he supposed. His to care for, and his to discipline, should the situation require it. And even if they required discipline more often than anything else, well, that was not his fault.

Nothing ever was.

Secure in that knowledge, at least for the time being, Lars proceeded down the street with as much speed as he was capable of given his current state, completely oblivious to the tall, blond figure following along after him on the opposite side of the street. Had he been paying any attention at all, he would have realized that the man had been nearby nearly the entire night long, lurking outside of each establishment he frequented as though drawn there by some sort of inexplicable force. But Lars had not been paying attention—he had not been completely capable of it, after his third or fourth bar. And so, he continued on, unimpeded, stumbling occasionally as he hummed a disjointed tune to himself, and remained completely oblivious to the judging stares of the few civilians that passed him by as he walked.

They knew him by sight, now, even if he could never summon the mental fortitude to break through the alcohol-induced haze to remember their names, himself, and even though he would never recognize it as such, the expressions of disdain he encountered were fueled by disgust for his behavior every bit as much as they were by a nearly crippling sense of pity for not only his wife, but the little girl that had been forced to suffer the consequences of having him as a father, as well.

Even if he had known of such a thing, Lars likely would not have cared, of course, having always been more concerned with his own needs and desires than he had been about anyone else's. He had become so accustomed to the idea of incurring rather poorly concealed distaste from the majority of people he encountered on a day to day basis that he found he could ignore it rather easily, even when he was stone cold sober. Of course, it may have helped that he hardly cared what his wife and daughter had to go through on his account, given that he had always felt they owed it to him after all he had done to provide for them. It was him who had gone out and gotten a job, when Elena told him she was pregnant—him, who had offered to fund the abortion, that Elena had subsequently refused. And, in the end, it had been him that had agreed to help her look after their daughter, after she was born, no matter how many times he had tried to tell her that neither one of them had it in them to be parents at all.

And now, here he was, ambling along the all but deserted streets of Soho on his own, beyond drunk, and still craving more of the oblivion that only the hardest liquor could provide. He could have been anywhere else. He would have preferred to be anywhere else, finally making good on the promise he had given himself when he was just a boy, that he would get the hell out of the town he had grown up in—that he would make a name for himself, and he would never be tied down by anything he didn't want.

But here he was, returning home to a wife and daughter that were nothing short of an obligation, even at the best of times, and that thought alone had him bitter enough that he could practically taste it at the back of his mouth.

It tasted like bile.

Barely able to manage the bout of energy it took to stumble into a nearby alleyway before he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the dirt and debris of the pavement, Lars snapped one hand out to steady himself against the nearby brick wall, while the other clutched at his roiling stomach like a drowning man seizes at a life raft. He blamed them for this—his wife and daughter—for the turn his life had taken, and the burden he felt he suffered under.

"You know what you have to do then, don't you?"

Flinching at the sound of the voice, Lars forced himself to stand erect once again, his bleary eyes peering around the alley he had ducked into as though he truly expected to see someone standing there beside him. Dimly, some small part of him realized this was not normal. That the hearing of voices was something that should cause concern, regardless of how intoxicated he was at the time that he heard them. But a still greater part of him was more than a little curious to hear exactly what this voice might tell him, next, his body shifting around until he was leaning against the brick wall at his back, his gaze roaming idly around the alleyway as he mumbled what he hoped would pass for a reply.

"Bit short on ideas, at the moment. Was hoping you could tell me."

"There can't be any evidence left behind."

"And how in hell am I supposed to manage that?"

"You know how. You have known all along."

"Have I, then?" Lars murmured, a furrow marring his brow as he realized in his near-stupor, he had slid part of the way down the alley wall without even noticing at the time, "News to me."

No matter how long he waited, however, it became rather abundantly clear that the voice, wherever it was, was not going to say anything more, a soft groan leaving Lars' parted lips as he shoved himself back into a slightly more stable position against the brick wall, his eyes squeezing shut until he felt that the world had stopped spinning. For a moment or two more, he simply remained where he was, as though if he did so, perhaps he could meld into the bricks, themselves, instead of having to venture back home to deal with his family. But before long, it occurred to him that he had to move along, if for no other reason than to avoid drawing the wrong sort of attention as a loiterer, should the police venture past his impromptu little hide-out…and it was then that he saw it, out of the corner of his eye as he shoved himself away from the wall, and shuffled back to the sidewalk once more.

A small packet of matches, half-buried beneath an old sandwich wrapper, so obscured and dirty that it very nearly blended into the grimy pavement it rested upon.

"Yes…"

Stooping to pick the packet up, and turning it over in his hand, Lars suddenly felt as though he had been given all the answers he had ever wanted in one single moment that had almost passed him by. Within seconds, he had stowed the tiny packet in his pocket, one hand on the brick to steady himself as he ambled back to the main thoroughfare and began to head home. He did not know when he would use the gift that had just been given to him—only that he must wait until the opportune moment to strike. And although he still did not see it, as he reluctantly moved along the sidewalk, the pale figure that had kept him in their sights the entire evening thus far had once again moved to follow after him, a chilling expression taking over his features as he realized his target had just taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker.

The expression, unrecognizable though it was, had been the sliver of a smile, and it was the first that Hastur, Duke of Hell, had worn in a very long while…

…

(August 11, 2008)

The following day, Fiona found herself rather startled to have the day off, her gaze remaining fixed upon the phone on the wall in her apartment for a moment as though she half-expected it to start ringing again, as direct proof that her employer had changed his mind. In truth, she would not have minded the prospect, particularly as she had not a clue what she was supposed to do with her time, having so much of it now at her disposal. But regardless of how long she spent staring at the phone, it did not appear as though it ever planned to ring again, a soft sigh escaping as Fiona forced herself to tear her eyes away, and move to place the coffee cup she had been nursing beside the kitchen sink for washing at a later time.

Almost as soon as she had done so, she found herself jumping as the sound of a hesitant knocking broke the almost peaceful silence of the apartment, her brow furrowing as she padded over to the door, and leaned up on her tiptoes to look through the peephole. A soft groan escaped at the realization that the individual who had intruded upon her would-be solitude was none other than Simon Bates, his expression nothing short of eager as he rocked back and forth on his feet out in the hall. And although some small part of her urged her to reconsider, Fiona found that she was tugging the door open with relatively little in the way of resistance, her mind barely even lingering on the reality of the fact that she was answering the door in her pajamas as she tilted her head back to look up at her unexpected visitor before she spoke.

"Something I can help you with, Simon?"

"Er—well I just popped over to see if you wanted some breakfast," Her neighbor replied, his cheeks flushing just a bit as he allowed his eyes to roam over her frame for a moment before elaborating any further, "I made—I made pancakes. Bacon, as well."

"I'm really not the breakfast type, I'm sorry—"

"Come on, everyone loves pancakes."

"Not everyone," Fiona countered, lifting a brow as she realized Simon had effectively sidled past her, to enter her apartment on his own, regardless of the fact that he had never actually received an invitation, "But by all means, come in, make yourself at home."

"Thanks."

"No—no problem."

"You off today, then?" Simon inquired, meandering into the den, and plopping down on the sofa so that he could look up at Fiona as she remained standing in the center of the room. It was difficult to tell, she supposed, whether he truly was oblivious to her obvious shock at how he had simply sauntered inside her home as though he belonged there, or if he knew and simply did not care. But before she could allow her irritation with both him and herself get the better of her, Fiona forced herself to take a deep breath, her palms smoothing over the fabric of her pajama bottoms as she padded over to the chair opposite the sofa, and took a seat for herself.

"I am. You?"

"Yup. Hence the ah—pancakes and bacon."

"I see," Fiona acknowledged, picking at a stray thread on the arm of the chair she occupied for a moment, before forcing herself to look at Simon once again, "Well, I was thinking I might—go for a run, actually."

"You run? Never seen you do that, before—"

"There's always a first time for everything."

"Think you might want a companion? I've uh—I've read that that sort of thing helps," Simon began, aware of the incredulous expression that had taken over Fiona's features in response to his suggestion, and emitting a nervous laugh as a result before attempting to go on, "Motivation and all that, you know."

"I think I'm fine on my own," Fiona assured, folding her arms across her chest, and settling back in the chair as though the desire to put as much distance between herself and her neighbor had suddenly become paramount, "I kind of just planned on—putting in the headphones and zoning out, to be honest."

"On your own?"

"Yeah. On my own."

"You know, that's one of the biggest common denominators in women who have been assaulted. Headphones. Makes them unaware of what's going on in their environment."

"No one is going to assault me, Simon."

"You don't know that. You don't, Fee," Simon pressed, ignoring the flinch Fiona gave in response to his slip in using the nickname she seemed to dislike so fiercely, in favor of attempting to get her to see that his remark only came from a position of concern, "There was a girl in Alfriston—"

"Yeah, but this isn't Alfriston, is it?" Fiona cut in, pushing herself out of the chair and heading back towards the kitchen in an effort to distract herself by getting another cup of coffee she knew she did not need, "It's Soho."

"It's not all that far off."

"So, what are you suggesting? That I get a running buddy?"

"It's been known to happen."

"And who do you think this 'running buddy' ought to be?"

"Well—I suppose I could be talked into it," Simon offered, something not all that far from a devilish grin stealing over his features, and causing Fiona to fight against a nearly overwhelming sense of exasperation, as a result, "Purely for your own safety, of course."

"I see."

"I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you."

"I'm sure you wouldn't," Fiona agreed, clutching her newly filled coffee mug in both hands, and using its warmth as a sort of anchor to push herself to do what she knew good manners seemed to demand, "Would you—would you like a cup for yourself?"

"Weren't you going to drag the two of us on a run?"

"I think I need more caffeine first. Thought it was only polite to give you the same option."

"Well, if you're offering," Simon consented, a lopsided smile toying at the corner of his mouth as he watched Fiona set her cup upon the counter so that she could turn from him and lift up on her tiptoes to snag another cup from the cupboard above the stove. The act caused her t-shirt to sneak up until just a sliver of her back was apparent, her free hand almost automatically drifting to the hem to yank it back down before Simon had a chance to catch sight of the scar that marred the skin of her back.

No one had ever seen it, save for the doctors that had treated her at the hospital after the fire, and she was bound and determined to ensure that it remained that way for as long as she could.

Having secured the coffee mug, and closed the cupboard door once again, Fiona turned back to the counter and began to pour the dark liquid into the cup, a glance towards Simon showing her that he had, in fact, been watching her the entire time. It was more than a little disconcerting, no matter how she tried to talk herself into believing that he was only exhibiting a sort of genuine neighborly concern. But regardless of whether she was somewhat desperate to find some way of politely nudging him back out of her apartment, Fiona was incapable doing exactly that, a soft sigh leaving her as she walked the coffee over to Simon before returning back to the kitchen to grab her own.

"Thank you, Fee."

"You're welcome. But—Simon?"

"Yeah?"

"Please don't—don't call me that."

"You never did tell me why you hate the name so much," Simon prompted, his tone only gently curious, despite the fact that Fiona had flinched once again at the prospect of having to answer the prompt at all. He did not understand. He could never understand, the way that just a simple shortening of her given name could send her back to a time in her life that she honestly would have given anything to forget. And so, instead of giving him a straight answer, Fiona settled for a lie, instead, her words soft, but hopefully no less convincing as she spoke.

"It just—it's rough on the ears, you know? Fee. It's not—not very feminine, to me, that's all."

"Well, I happen to think it's beautiful. But I understand if you don't like it."

"Thank you."

"Any time," Simon grinned, downing a surprisingly large gulp of coffee, and closing his eyes for a moment as the warmth of the liquid snaked its way down his throat, "You make the world's best cup of coffee, d'you know that?"

"I've never actually had anyone tell me that, before."

"Yeah, well, it's true. You should start your own business."

"Flattery is its own worst enemy, Simon," Fiona cautioned, somewhat surprised that she was suppressing a laugh in response to her neighbor's words, and hoping that the act of bringing her coffee to her lips to take a sip of her own would hide the fact from Simon's unnervingly observant gaze, "Besides, where would I get the money? You've seen this apartment."

"That bookshop job not paying enough, then?"

"It's not that. It's just that if anything else comes along, financially—"

"You'll need to take on a second job?"

"Something like that."

"Ever think of getting a roommate?" Simon asked, aware of the flash of something not all that far from fear that made its way into Fiona's expression, and holding out a hand to waylay her impending protest so that he could properly explain his meaning, "To help with the cost, I mean."

"No. I don't—I'm not sure I have it in me to share my space."

"You're sharing it with me, right now."

"That's—different," Fiona said, biting her tongue to keep herself from adding that Simon was not in her apartment at the moment through any direct choice of her own, and choosing, instead, to take another calming sip of her coffee before going on, "You don't live here, day in and day out."

"No. No, I suppose you're right."

"Did you? Ever think of getting a roommate, I mean."

"I would love one. Not sure one would love me, though," Simon remarked, something in the way he said the words sparking the briefest flickers of pity in Fiona's mind, though she shook it away as quickly as she could before it could fully take hold, "Why? You offering?"

"I think it's a bit fast, moving from running buddies, to roommates, Simon."

"Right. Yeah. You're probably—yeah," Simon stammered, a slight flush tinting his cheeks, and causing Fiona to look away as his own sudden embarrassment seemed to spark her own before she had even realized it, "I'll just—I'll just go get ready then, shall I?"

"Only if you want to. I promise you, I'm able to take care of myself," Fiona assured, pushing herself out of her chair once again so that she could grab for Simon's now-empty coffee mug, and carry it back to the kitchen, "How about I make you an alternative deal?"

"Oh? Do go on."

"What if I only rook you into joining me if I'm going after dark?"

"Fiona—"

"I'm being completely serious, Simon. If I do decide to go out later at night, you'd be the first person I asked to come with me," The young woman hurried on, something instinctive all but demanding that she make this bid for independence via compromise, no matter how she wished such a thing was not even necessary to begin with. She had never wanted to allow herself to get too close to anyone, whether they were just a neighbor, or something else entirely. And although she had tried her best since she had moved into this apartment to keep Simon at arm's length, he had continued to press against the metaphorical walls she had attempted to build to keep him, and everyone else, out—

And she was simply too tired to try that hard, anymore, no matter what it might mean for her privacy in the long run.

Surprisingly steeled by the thought, regardless of how dubious it may be, in reality, Fiona forced herself to turn her attention back to Simon as he stood from his position on the sofa and made a show of stretching out apparently stiff muscles, a low grunt leaving him while a muffled pop emanated from his spine. For a moment, she wondered if he had heard a word of what she had just said, his expression giving nothing away as he regarded her in total silence for long enough to have her shifting nervously on her feet before she could fully stop it. But before she could make any attempt at coming up with something to say to ease the silence that had risen up between them, Simon was clearing his throat and preparing to speak, his blue eyes never once leaving her face in the process.

"Fine. But you keep one ear free at all times, got it?" He instructed, clearly very much reluctant to consider allowing her out on her own, even in spite of the fact that he had no obligation whatsoever to be so concerned, "And I want you to have your phone available as well. In case you notice someone following you."

"Right. Duly noted," Fiona acknowledged, somewhat relieved to note that Simon had started to make the trek back towards the foyer, and her front door, and following along in his wake, even as she realized his instructions, such as they were, were not quite done.

"And Fiona?"

"Yeah?"

"If you do notice someone following you, I'm coming with you every single time, light nor not."

"Simon, who would want to follow me? I think you're—I think you're maybe being a bit paranoid."

"Am I, though?" Simon countered, pausing just outside of Fiona's apartment door, and turning back to lean against the doorframe, an almost eerily conspiratorial wink shocking her, to say the least, as he moved forward just close enough to be able to whisper in her ear…

"In my limited experience, only the paranoid survive, Fiona. And you might find that you've got more to offer than you think sooner, rather than later."

To say anything other than that she wanted to question him on exactly what that meant would have been a lie, but before she could summon the wherewithal to do anything of the sort, Simon was off down the hall, humming tunelessly to himself as he reached the door to the stairwell, and disappeared from sight.

So much for putting herself at ease…

…


	6. Curve Ball

(August 11, 2008)

Aziraphale sat upon the familiar park bench overlooking the water, his back straight, and hands folded neatly on his lap while he waited for his companion to arrive. To say that he was apprehensive would have been an understatement, knowing that the conversation he wished to have would have to be handled with a great deal of care to avoid giving too much away. In truth, he was more than a little hesitant to believe that the demon had truly had no part to play in the fire Fiona had clearly been so affected by, knowing that even if he had not started the blaze himself, he very well may have inadvertently influenced the man that did, even if that had not been his intent. But he also knew he had to go about his method of questioning very carefully, if he did not wish to risk either offending Crowley, or giving him reason to believe that the girl he was keeping from him was the very same one he had already met.

It was the latter aspect that concerned him most, truth be told, knowing the full extent of what Fiona had already endured in her young life, and having decided, as a result, that he really did need to do his best to keep her shielded from the truth of what they were. Of course, a part of him felt awful keeping that reality from her, knowing what was to come in precisely eleven years. But a still greater part felt an almost instinctive desire to prevent her from enduring any more hardship and strife than she already had, and so he was resolved to remain silent, and keep Fiona sheltered from as much of his true purpose as was possible.

And that meant doing whatever he could to prevent Crowley's incorrigible curiosity from creating problems for them both.

As if that particular line of thinking had summoned the demon of its own volition, the angel only just suppressed a start of surprise as he turned his head to the left in response to a sharp cry of a passing bird, and saw the demon already lounging on the park bench beside him. Sheltered beneath the ever-present sunglasses, it was impossible to garner any idea of what Crowley's mood might have been like in that moment, his expression, as always, carrying vague hints of what could only be described as minor indifference. But knowing the demon these past six thousand years had given Aziraphale a sort of second-sight when it came to his more apparent habits, and it was that fact alone that enabled him to keep his own expression impassive as he noted the slight lift of the brow that indicated a question of his motives was forthcoming.

"Two times in one week, Angel—what brought this on?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all," Aziraphale remarked, aware of Crowley's intent focus upon him, and hoping beyond hope that the demon would not be able to pick up on his hesitancy over what he was preparing to discuss as easily as he feared he would, "Do I need a reason to ask to see a friend?"

"Friends now, are we?"

"Well, of course. Why would we not be?"

"I seem to recall you making it very clear what we were," Crowley replied, shifting to drape one arm across the back of the bench, while simultaneously stretching long legs onto the walkway, regardless of whether the act would cause any passersby to have to take measures to avoid tripping over them, in the process, "Opposite sides, and all that."

"Well, I wasn't exactly wrong, Crowley," Aziraphale explained, aware of the slightly distasteful expression that passed over his companion's features, and choosing to press on, regardless, "We are. On opposite sides, I mean."

"Having second thoughts, then?"

"What? No!"

"S' what it seems like."

"I'm not! Not really. I just—I'm worried."

"Worried," Crowley repeated, angling his body towards the angel's in a surprisingly fluid motion, and quirking a brow over the top of his sunglasses while he watched Aziraphale squirm just a bit in response to the apparent scrutiny, "What the heaven do you have to worry about, Angel?"

"Armageddon, for a start."

"But we've already come up with a plan to stop all that—"

"That doesn't mean I don't worry," The angel pressed, his hands twisting in his lap, while his brow furrowed and he cast a furtive glance towards his companion before going on, "If anyone were to discover what we are doing—"

"They won't."

"But if they do—"

"They won't," Crowley insisted, golden eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he regarded Aziraphale for a moment in silence, and noted that the angel appeared to be in some discomfort, "What's this really about?"

"Why does it have to be about anything at all?"

"Because I know you, Angel. It's always about something."

"I hardly think so," Aziraphale countered, his brow furrowing as he squirmed a bit on the bench, and directed his gaze out over the water, instead of risking a glance at Crowley, directly, "You make it sound as though I am in a constant state of worry."

"Aren't you, though?"

"Not at all."

"Right. Well, something is bothering you," Crowley persisted, following the angel's gaze, and noting that he appeared absolutely fixated upon one of the ducks floating on the water nearby, "What did you call me out here for, anyway?"

"To ask you something. It—it is completely unrelated to our other—arrangement."

"Ask away."

"Do you—do you remember that fire a few years ago? The one that—that took down that apartment complex?" Aziraphale asked, glancing at the demon sat beside him from out of the corner of his eye, and pursing his lips together for a moment before forcing himself to press on in spite of his concern that he had already made Crowley suspicious, "The papers said it—that it was one of the tenants in the building that started the blaze."

"Yes—I do seem to recall something about that."

"Well, you—you wouldn't have had any reason to have—something to do with it, would you?"

"With a fire that was started by a man trying to kill his own wife and daughter?" The demon replied, cocking his head to the side as Aziraphale glanced his way once again, his expression uncertain, to say the least, "No, Angel. It wasn't me."

"Was it—would it have been caused by any of your—associates?"

"How the heaven should I know?"

"I just—well, I rather thought that perhaps your people communicated about such things."

"I never heard a thing about this."

"You're certain?" Aziraphale began, attempting to search his companion's features for any sign of duplicity, and finding none, even in the face of his concern that perhaps Crowley would attempt to be deliberately deceptive, "Because if—if you had heard something, it certainly would not cause me to find fault with you in any way."

"How kind."

"I'm being serious, Crowley."

"So, am I," Crowley stated, his expression turning perplexed as he regarded the angel for a moment in abject curiosity, before shifting so that he was leaning towards Aziraphale with one elbow upon his knee, "What are you getting at, Aziraphale?"

"It's just that I may have heard something—about one of the survivors. And I wondered, perhaps, if you might have—have had anything to do with that as well."

"You're going to have to be more specific, Angel. As I recall, there was more than one survivor."

"There was a—a young girl."

"Yes?"

"The daughter of the man they believe started the fire in the first place," Aziraphale elaborated, once again watching Crowley's expression carefully, and noting just the faintest flickers of recognition in response to his words, before the demon's expression was once again schooling itself into an expression that was not all that far from indifference, "Crowley, did—did you—"

"Did I what?"

"Did you pull that girl from the fire?"

"What does it matter if I did?" Crowley asked, unfolding his limbs and moving to stand in one fluid motion, his hands almost immediately jamming themselves inside trouser pockets, as he turned to face the angel on the bench, and looked at him over the rim of his sunglasses for a moment, in hopes that the gesture would lend him some insight into why the questions he was being asked had come about, in the first place, "I don't make a point of going around flaunting good deeds. You know that."

"I suppose I just happen to be curious about your—motivations behind doing such a thing in the first place."

"I didn't have any motivations. I just—acted."

"And have you seen the girl since? Er—have you contacted her; I mean?" The angel mused, a slight flush warming his cheeks as he stood, himself, if for no other reason than to remove the advantage Crowley had towering over him where he sat upon the bench. Of course, he did not truly think that the demon would be a threat. Not really, given the relationship, of sorts, that had existed between them for so many years it was almost simple to lose count. But still, it would have been a lie to pretend that he was not a tiny bit apprehensive, his hands once again taking up the act of wringing in front of his abdomen as he started to walk towards the outer edge of the park, and Crowley followed not long after, as Aziraphale had always known he would.

"Haven't seen her since."

"You haven't—you haven't looked for her, or—or tried to find her in any way?"

"No. Why would I? What's done is done, right?"

"Ah—right. Yes, you—you're right."

"Listen, what is it that's got you so curious about this?" The demon inquired, falling into step beside his companion, and shifting so that he was walking backwards, in order to continue his observation of Aziraphale's features, first-hand, "What does it matter who I did or didn't save, unless—"

"Unless what?"

"No. Oh, Angel, you clever bastard."

"I—Crowley what the devil are you on about?"

"She's the one you're keeping in your shop."

"What? No! What—whatever gave you that idea?" Aziraphale stammered, already knowing that the denial was useless, and yet finding that he was utterly incapable of not attempting to do so, regardless, "That's completely preposterous."

"Is it, though? Lying's never been your strong suit."

"Crowley, I am not lying."

"Suit yourself, Aziraphale. I've already figured you out."

"H—have you, then?"

"Oh, I have," Crowley confirmed, one corner of his mouth turning up in a sly grin, as he watched Aziraphale come to a sudden stop on the sidewalk, and sidestepped a harried looking pedestrian to come to a stop beside him not long thereafter, "And I know exactly who it is you're hiding, now."

"You—Crowley, you can't interfere with her life!" The angel exclaimed, lowering his voice as he realized his outburst had earned them more than a few curious glances from passersby, and endeavoring to speak in quieter tones as he went on, "She—there is absolutely no reason for her to suffer any more than she already has."

"S' that your way of suggesting I would torture the girl?"

"What? No, of course not!"

"Then what? What is it that has you so determined to keep her to yourself?"

"Your—allies. I'm sorry, Crowley, but I will not have her subjected to some of the people you work with."

"Hastur and Ligur are hardly what I would call allies, Angel," Crowley disagreed, watching for a moment as Aziraphale maneuvered around him to continue on down the sidewalk, before endeavoring to do the same, himself, "And I have no intention of letting the rest of Hell know about the girl, anyway."

"That doesn't mean they would not find out, anyway."

"And what about your Heavenly cohorts, hmm? Seems to me they could be just as much of a risk to the girl as anyone I know."

"Oh, I highly doubt that," Aziraphale scoffed, giving the demon a look that suggested an angel would be about as likely to harm the girl in question as a newborn puppy, and yet finding that the expression had little to no effect on his companion's apparent determination, "We are angels, after all."

"In my experience, that doesn't mean a thing."

"Yes, well, thankfully your experience, as you put it, is not all inclusive."

"Indeed," Crowley murmured, following along after the angel, and suppressing his own amusement at how obviously tense Aziraphale seemed to be, in hopes that avoiding a show of such a thing would prompt him to be more forthcoming. In spite of himself, the demon had found his curiosity over this elusive young woman in Aziraphale's bookshop to be only growing, and although he was at least partially aware of the logic behind keeping her out of the events that would likely transpire in the coming years, he was more than a little reluctant to allow that knowledge to keep him from satisfying that curiosity in any way he could, "Does she know that you're here, then?"

"Pardon?"

"Does she know that you're here with me?" The demon clarified, aware of the sudden sheepishness that made itself known in his companion's expression, thus providing him with an answer before the angel even had the chance to reply.

"I gave her the day off."

"Trying to avoid suspicion?"

"Everyone deserves some time to themselves, Crowley."

"Well that's a clever way of putting it."

"No. She doesn't know where I am," Aziraphale finally admitted, a glance at Crowley's expression showing him all the evidence he needed that his reply had only given the demon the leave to feel all the satisfaction in the world at having come to the proper conclusion so quickly, "And I have no intention of letting her know the true depth of what it is you and I are attempting to do, either."

"Think she'll run if you do?"

"I've already told you I will not put her at risk. That's the end of it, Crowley. I'm not discussing it any further."

"Suit yourself," Crowley acknowledged, one shoulder lifting in what passed for a casual shrug as the two of them neared the upcoming street corner, and the demon recognized that they were headed towards a familiar little coffee shop that the angel appeared inclined to frequent when under duress, "But you and I both know you're bound to slip up, eventually, and she'll figure you out—"

"Then I shall deal with that day when it comes."

"But you like this one, Angel. I don't think you'll be able to give her up that easily," Crowley persisted, once again taking note of the flicker of something akin to guilt that passed across Aziraphale's features, though the angel seemed a bit more adept at hiding that expression this time around. He was now almost entirely focused upon the task of holding the door of the little coffee shop open so that his companion could enter, before he did the same. And so, the demon settled for simply entering the shop as offered, the sense that the conversation about this girl Aziraphale seemed so intent to protect was well and truly over prompting his silence, whether he truly wanted to allow for such a thing, or not.

After all, there were other ways of finding out what he wanted to know about this girl than going through the angel that had been his friend, however reluctantly, these last six hundred years…

…

(August 15, 2008)

In the days since her fateful 'day off', Fiona had rather mercifully not had to endure any more of them, her time once again being taken up by odds and ends at the bookshop, when she wasn't preoccupied trying to avoid Simon. It wasn't that she feared him. Not really, even in spite of the fact that he seemed to have eerily good timing when it came to venturing downstairs to her apartment for a visit when she was home. But something about the way he seemed to always be aware of more than he wanted to let on unnerved her, particularly as it pertained to his most recent parting statement from a few days prior…

"In my limited experience, only the paranoid survive, Fiona. And you might find that you've got more to offer than you think sooner, rather than later."

What the hell did it all mean?

She wanted to believe that it was nothing. That it was just the ramblings of a man who had far too much free time on his hands, and a penchant for not showing much of a filter when it came to keeping a conversation within the bounds of normalcy. But something about the way he had been looking at her as he said the words spoke of a small modicum of truth, whether she wanted to believe it or not. And that was what had her so distracted as she approached the door of her apartment after another day at the bookshop that she hardly even noticed the appearance of the man at her side until he spoke, and caused her to jump with the suddenness of his intrusion into her thoughts.

"Miss Matheson—we need to talk."

"Jesus—you startled me, Nick," Fiona gasped, pausing in the act of unlocking her apartment door in order to turn and face her landlord, head-on, "What—what's wrong?"

"Nothing. But I've been visiting all my tenants, and you were the only one I've been unable to reach."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I—I've been busy with work."

"Well, I suppose that's a good thing, eh? I've been—well, long story short, I've been telling everyone I'm going to need to do a hike on rent prices," Nick informed, leaning against the wall beside Fiona's door, and regarding her with a curious expression as she appeared to have gone completely still in response to the information he had given her, "Not something I want to do, of course, but that's the way the world runs, sometimes, right?"

"I—right. I suppose you're right."

"And it'll still be due first of the month. That going to be alright with you?"

"Um—sure. It'll be—I'll make it work," Fiona managed, a pool of dread forming in the pit of her stomach as she braced herself on the doorknob of her apartment, and did her best to keep herself from showing her panic, outright. She would have been a fool to pretend that her mind was not already returning to the recent conversation with Simon—to how she would be hard-pressed to continue living as she was if some other, unseen expense came her way. But regardless of that reality, she was not about to give her landlord the satisfaction, particularly in light of his almost eager expression as he waited for what he likely hoped would be a show of emotion, begging him to let her off the hook.

Her pride, however foolish, would simply not allow for any of that.

Steeled by the thought, even if only temporarily, Fiona squared her shoulders, and waited for Nick to decide whether or not he was going to decide to accept her answer at face value, or try to press her further into a corner than he had already, her eyes meeting his with a kind of steely defiance that she did not truly feel at all. Simon had told her once what 'alternative' options the man offered to his neighbor Sheila when she could not manage the last increase in rent. And Fiona would be damned if she let herself sink to that particular level of desperation, her expression still resolute as she waited just one final second, before Nick seemed to sense her unwillingness to cave, and decided to speak once more.

"Right. Great. Well, if you need any alternative arrangements, you be sure and let me know," He began, grey eyes raking up and down Fiona's frame in a way even Simon's never had, before he was turning and heading back down the hall, toward the stairwell that would lead him back to the main office on the floor below. To her, it seemed a miracle that she was even capable of keeping herself upright until he disappeared entirely from her view, but almost as soon as he had, she was hurrying to unlock her apartment door with trembling hands, and only just managing to shut it behind her before she sank back against it, and forced herself to focus upon taking deep breaths…

Apparently, it was time to find a second job.

…


	7. New Hire

Fiona stood outside the dingy bar with a look of moderate disgust etched upon her face, her right hand gripping the strap of her bag so tightly she could hear the leather emit a faint squeak of protest on occasion. She truly did not want to venture indoors, despite knowing full well that it was likely the only place she could go for the second job she required, should she desire to remain living in her apartment for much longer. But whether or not she wanted to go inside, it was painfully obvious that she would have to overcome her reluctance sooner, rather than later, the sigh that escaped her slightly parted lips causing her shoulders to deflate just a bit before she was squaring them, and stepping forward to place one hand upon the door to push it open and head inside.

The lighting was dim enough that she had to stand in the doorway for a moment, while her eyes adjusted to the vast difference in visibility, her nose wrinkling just a bit as the scent of stale beer and grease wafted towards her. A faint sound of clinking glasses reached her ears as she finally felt comfortable enough to move a bit further inside. And although she had somehow expected this—the almost immediate feeling of being rendered less of a person simply by passing through the front door—Fiona forced herself to continue moving forward, her hand recoiling from the bar as she felt the sticky texture upon it within moments of reaching out to attempt using it to steady herself as she approached, and she swallowed past the sudden nausea that took root in her stomach at the same time that she caught the attention of the man behind the bar.

“How you doin’, darlin’? Get ya somethin’ to drink?”

“Uh—no. No, thank you,” Fiona replied, forcing herself to remember her manners despite the fact that the idea of a drink caused her entire body to tense as though the man had just suggested she dunk herself in a vat of toxic goo, instead, “I’m actually—I’m here to see about a job.”

“Oh. Well, let me get a look at ya, and I’ll see what I can do,” The man changed course, moving out from behind the bar, while his gaze roamed over every last inch of Fiona’s frame while he made a sound that might have been an appreciative hum, “What sort of work were ya lookin’ for, sweetheart?”

“I—anything you have to offer, I suppose.”

“What kind of moves you got?”

“What?”

“Moves. We’re lookin’ for dancers and waitresses. You dance?”

“Not—not really,” Fiona informed, a faint flush adorning her cheeks, and making her abundantly grateful that the dim lighting of the interior of the bar made such a thing almost impossible for her companion to discover, “Maybe a—a waitress would be better.”

“Maybe,” The man repeated, once again allowing his eyes to rake over Fiona’s body, a faint grin tugging at one corner of his mouth as he gestured for her to take a nearby stool so they could both take a seat at the bar, “We could always work ya into the other job later on.”

Unsure of exactly how to reply to that, as she had a fairly clear picture of exactly what the man seated beside her meant by ‘dancing’, Fiona chewed at her lower lip as she watched him watching her, trying as best she could to make the fact that her skin had been crawling almost as soon as she entered the establishment as unobtrusive as possible. For a moment, she almost wondered if he was going to remain silent until she gathered the wherewithal to speak again, her hands twisting around the strap of her bag for want of anything better to do. But before she had fully decided whether she should speak, or simply head back out of the door, Fiona found the effort unwarranted, her body jumping in shock as she realized the man across from her was chuckling at her, his head shaking just a bit before he finally broke the silence between them.

“Relax, darlin’. I won’t make ya dance if ya don’t want to.”

“Thank you.”

“Any time. Think ya can start this weekend? We usually have quite the crowd Friday and Saturday nights—” The man inquired, aware of the startled shock that made its way across Fiona’s features, and leaning forward to place what he clearly thought was a comforting hand upon her knee, despite the fact that she almost immediately attempted to flinch away, “I’ll set ya up to start trainin’ with Sydney. She’s one of our best.”

“So, I—I have the job?” Fiona verified, somehow not daring to believe that she had been accepted so readily, without any sort of real interview at all, especially when this man did not even know her name. Some small part of her felt discouraged at the prospect, as though taking the job at this point would only prove how far she had really fallen despite her best efforts to remain standing. But in spite of that gut feeling, Fiona knew that she could not afford to refuse, her tongue darting out to wet her lips for a moment as she registered her companion’s almost too-eager nod, a shiver racing its way down her spine as she realized he had reached out to take her hand in his before he voiced his agreement out loud.

“Sure thing, darlin’. You’re perfect. Let me just go grab the phone number of the place you need to go and get your uniform from. Then you’ll be all set.”

While he set to the task of returning to his former position behind the bar to ruffle through some paperwork in search of the aforementioned phone number, Fiona remained in her seat on the stool beside the bar, her eyes carefully tracking the man’s movements as she focused upon the task of taking deep, even breaths. She still felt almost paralyzed by the thought of the man suddenly changing his mind, even in the face of how nervous she was about exactly what her apparent new job might entail.   
Something told her she was not entirely prepared for what this man might expect from her, and yet she was still more than a little determined to persist, regardless, knowing that anything her new employer may demand would still be far better than being forced to live on the streets.

She could not accept that as her fate. She would not.

Steeled by that thought, small though it was, Fiona somehow persuaded a smile to curve at the edges of her mouth, one hand reaching out to take the suddenly proffered card that the man behind the bar handed her way, while the other steadied her balance against the bar while she hopped down from the stool and placed both feet flat upon the ground. After she had taken the card, she forced herself to remain in place while the man made his way back around the bar once more, her lips pursing into a line as he stepped close enough to place a hand at the small of her back in a show of being gallant and escorting her towards the door.

“I’ll tell Sydney to meet ya at the uniform place. Tomorrow, three o’clock?” He began, registering the faint nod Fiona gave in response, and taking that as leave to run his hand across her back until his palm rested snugly against her hip, “Great. I think you’re really gonna love it.”

“Thank you,” Fiona responded, forcing all the gratitude she could manage into her tone as she did her best to extract herself from her new employer’s hold upon her waist, and moving through the now open doorway so that she could take a deep breath of the crisp air outside, before her nerves could become too overwhelming for her to maintain at least some level of decorum in the face of her apprehension and resignation that consumed her in waves, “I—I’ll see you Saturday?”

“Saturday. Sounds great, darlin’. Oh, and I know I never asked ya for your name, but that’s on purpose. You won’t be needin’ it in here, anyways.”

“I—I won’t?”

“No,” The man confirmed, another grin stealing across his features as he sent Fiona an attempt at a salacious wink, and remained completely blind to how she seemed to recoil from him in response, “None of my girls use their real names, here. Our clients aren’t interested in all that. Syd’s real good at comin’ up with that stuff though. Ya should ask her what she thinks.”

“I—okay,” Fiona stammered, taking another step towards the sidewalk, and steeling herself against the resurgence of the nerves she felt at the prospect of what it was she was going to be expected to do for this new job. A part of her was almost floored by the guilt of what her poor mother would think if she knew exactly where her little girl was, right now. But a still greater part of her knew that even that reaction could not be enough to keep her from doing what needed to be done to continue to afford her rent…

She had to have a second job. Even if the one she ended up with was not all that far from what her father had accused her of being, all along.

Whore.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The following day, Fiona found herself rather mercifully preoccupied with the task of clearing out the bookshelves on the upper floor of Aziraphale’s shop, picking out the tomes that would require any sort of maintenance due to their age, and setting them aside while she simultaneously dusted off the shelves as best she could. In truth, she had no clue how long some of them had been sitting up there on the shelves, neglected and very obviously not capable of finding their new home with a potential customer in such an out of the way place. But regardless of the true purpose behind the job, Fiona would have been a liar to pretend that she was not abundantly grateful for the way in which it distracted her mind from the outing that was going to take place later on that day, her distraction so encouraging that she caught herself humming along to the tune that wafted up to her from the gramophone downstairs, a faint smile upon her lips as she clambered back down the ladder once again, and placed another book upon the table nearby.

It was then that she heard the tell-tale tinkling of the bell above the shop door that indicated either a customer’s arrival, or Aziraphale’s return, her feet carrying her to the wooden railing overlooking the floor below, to determine exactly who it was that had entered the shop. Upon realizing it was her employer, and not anyone unfamiliar, an unbidden wave of relief came crashing over her, allowing her posture to relax as she watched the man glance around the bottom floor before seeming to determine that she was not, in fact, down there with him at all. And, with the small smile he sent her way as he tilted his head back to glance upstairs warming her heart far more than she felt she truly deserved, Fiona allowed her gaze to drift to the small, delicately wrapped package he held in his hands, one brow lifting as she leaned against the railing before her, and tilted her head to the side before she spoke.

“Donuts?”

“Better, dear. Crepes.”

“I should have known.”

“Come join me for one?” Aziraphale questioned, smiling still more broadly at Fiona’s answering eager nod, though he did not miss the way the emotion did not quite seem to reach her usually expressive blue eyes. Something had been troubling her, of that he was absolutely certain. But inasmuch as he wanted to ask her what it was, for no other reason than that he desired to help her through it, Aziraphale resisted the urge, knowing that pressing Fiona for information would likely only result in him inadvertently pushing her away.

“You know, the way you keep feeding me, I’ll be lucky if I don’t start putting on weight,” The young woman teased, descending the stairs with some enthusiasm, and reaching out to brush her hand softly against her companion’s shoulder before walking side by side with him towards the cluttered back office of his shop, “I wonder sometimes if that might be your intent.”

“Well it certainly would not hurt you to—gain a little. Not that I ah—not that I object to how you look, at the present.”

“Is that your way of telling me I’m too skinny, Zee?”

“I—oh—oh dear.”

“Oh dear?”

“Yes. Oh dear,” Aziraphale confirmed, the faint flush that adorned his cheeks causing Fiona to become unable to resist the soft laugh of amusement that escaped, despite the fact that she truly had not wished to back her employer and, dare she say it aloud, friend into a metaphorical corner with her jests, “I seem to have found myself in a situation where no matter how I answer your inquiry, I risk offending you.”

“Oh Zee, you could never do that.”

“But my dear—”

“You could never do that,” Fiona pressed, stopping about half of the way to the back room, in favor of placing a hand on Aziraphale’s forearm in hopes that the gesture might persuade him to look her in the eye, “I’m—I’m sorry, Zee, I never meant to make you uncomfortable.”

“You haven’t, Fiona. Not really.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am,” Aziraphale assured, finally summoning another smile as he placed the hand that was not holding the box of crepes atop Fiona’s own, and gave it a reassuring squeeze, “I simply hope I never make you feel such a thing.”

“Trust me, I think that’s the farthest thing from an issue you need to worry about,” Fiona began, frowning a bit at the thought of a man like Aziraphale even contemplating putting her in any sort of uncomfortable situation, especially when compared to how nervous even a simple glance from certain other men in her life could make her feel. But, determined not to allow even the thought of said men ruin her morning, especially when her companion seemed so intent upon searching her face as though he could sense that there was something on her mind, her attention turning to the task of completing the journey to the back room so that she could lean up on tiptoe to reach for the plates that had been placed upon a high shelf, while Aziraphale set himself to the task of opening the box of crepes.

“That is quite the relief to hear, my dear. I hope you know that.”

“I do. Trust me, I do.”

“Good. I suppose that might count as one less thing for me to worry about,” Aziraphale said, placing the now-opened box of crepes on the table that was placed before the sofa, and following Fiona’s movements carefully as she toed off her flats and padded over to sit down with plates held firmly in hand. For a moment or two, he did what he could to simply school his expression into a more neutral tone, knowing that his sudden confession of worry over something outside of their admittedly unique bond had already caught his young companion’s attention, as evidenced by the slight furrow of her brow. And although he truly had hoped that the comment could slip by unnoticed, he knew almost as soon as she sat down and glanced up at him once again that he was not about to be that fortunate.

The girl was far too perceptive, sometimes, and as soon as he recognized the silent question in her gaze, Aziraphale found himself rather fervently hoping that he would be able to come up with some suitable reason for his slip that would not seem like too much of a lie…

“What is it that has you so worried?”

“I—what?”

“You said you were worried about other things. Or—or you implied it,” Fiona explained, running her palms over the fabric of her jeans, and forcing herself to continue to meet her companion’s gaze head-on rather than looking away, “And I just—I want you to know that I’m here to listen to you since you’re always so willing to do the same for me.”

“Oh my dear—” Aziraphale enthused, momentarily ignoring the box of crepes so that he could sit beside Fiona on the sofa, and reach a hand out to take her own as slowly as he dared to avoid startling her, and forcing her to pull away, “You truly don’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know. But I—I think I want to. I should, if for no other reason than to repay you for your kindness in taking me in, and allowing me to work here.”

“You don’t need to repay me at all, Fiona. Please never think that.”

“I—I’ll try,” The young woman managed, forcing a tentative smile to her lips as she glanced at the steady weight of Aziraphale’s hand resting upon her own, and took a deep breath before going on, “I promise, Zee. I’ll try.”

“I suppose that makes two of us, then. Trying, I mean,” Aziraphale noted, his gaze following Fiona’s towards their conjoined hands, until his companion gently withdrew her hand from its place beneath his own, “And I do intend to be more forthcoming, myself, you know. I simply—”

“You aren’t accustomed to having someone around for long enough to care?”

Stunned at the startling amount of insight in such a seemingly simple statement, Aziraphale could do nothing save for managing a slight nod in response for a moment, his expression turning to one of concern as he caught himself marveling, yet again, at how such a seemingly innocent young woman could have encountered so much already in her young life. It made him tremendously sad to think of what she could have been through, both before the fire he now knew the cause of, and after, to give her such apparent knowledge of the more distasteful characteristics of the majority of the world’s population. But he also knew very well that given such a fact, the idea of keeping Crowley away from her for as long as he could was a wise decision, even if a part of him was aware that the demon would never deliberately do anything to put the poor girl in harm’s way.

She had been hurt enough as it was, and he would be damned if he did anything either directly or indirectly to make the reality of her situation even worse.

With such a thought in mind, the angel once again returned his attention to the young woman seated beside him, his expression catching hers as he broke the silence between them in an attempt at easing their apparent discomfort, and returning them both to the better mood they had been in before.

“What would you say to starting in on those crepes, my dear? They certainly aren’t going to eat themselves…”

If the smile that had dawned on Fiona’s features were any indication, the mere mention of taking a brief amount of solace in the food he had procured for them proving both that they were remarkably similar, in spite of their vastly different experiences, and that perhaps, for the moment, each of them could allow whatever haunted them to simply fade away.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“You must be Fiona,” The dark-haired woman greeted, rising from her seat in the far corner of the little shop with a surprisingly welcoming smile, her heels clicking against the wood flooring as she crossed to where the store’s new arrival stood, frozen in the doorway, “I’m Sydney. I think—I think Sal might’ve sent you?”

"His name is Sal?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“He—no, he didn’t,” Fiona confirmed, summoning a weak smile of her own as the young woman before her drew her into an unanticipated welcoming embrace, and then leaned back with a hand holding each of her shoulders to give her the once over, before she spoke again.

“Well that doesn’t really surprise me.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No. He never discloses that little tidbit until he decides you’re going to stick around. But—my God, you just—perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Perfect for what?”

“For what I have in mind,” Sydney explained, a winning smile once again tugging at the corners of her mouth as she dropped both hands to her sides, and cocked a brow as she realized her newfound companion appeared to be far more nervous than was truly needed, given the circumstances, “Hey—you okay?”

“I—yeah. I am.”

“You’re sure?”

“I kind of have to be,” Fiona stated, shrugging a bit in an effort to hopefully minimize the risk of her obvious nerves somehow giving Sydney the wrong impression, namely that she was not the right fit for the job, “I really—I need this job.”

“Trust me, you aren’t the only one,” Sydney assured, acting on impulse and reaching for Fiona’s hand, and grabbing onto it to give her fingers a squeeze before she had the wherewithal to flinch away, “And you’re going to do just fine.”

“You really think so?”

“Of course I do! Hell, if Sal puts up with me, he’s going to absolutely love you.”

“I—I’m not so certain that’s a good thing.”

“It’s probably not. But he never does anything too terrible to any of his girls. He wants the frisky business saved for the customers.”

“Too—too terrible?” Fiona stammered, unable to help the way in which her voice cracked mid-sentence as she suddenly found herself taking a tentative step back towards the door as though tempted to bolt. For her part, Sydney seemed to register that very fact almost immediately, if the softening of her already stunning features were any indication. And before Fiona could fully reconcile herself to the fact, she found herself once again far closer to a practical stranger than she had anticipated, Sydney’s brown eyes holding her own as she squeezed both of her shoulders in a gentle attempt at grounding Fiona’s obvious apprehension before moving to provide verbal reassurance, as well.

“Hey—hey, look at me. Nothing is going to happen that you don’t feel comfortable with, okay? Sal may be a sleaze, but he puts his girls where they fit best. And if that means waitressing is it for you, that’s what it means.”

“Is that—is that what you do?”

“It’s what I used to do,” Sydney corrected, rubbing her hands up and down Fiona’s arms for a moment, before pulling back and smiling at the obviously nervous young woman before her once again, “But Sal wants me to train you in what’s what before you’re let off on your own. Apparently, I’m the best of the best.”

“Well I suppose I should be honored,” Fiona remarked, managing a slightly less wavery grin of her own, in the wake of her companion’s rather obvious attempt at a joke, and exhaling as a means of beginning to force the lingering tension in her frame to the back of her mind, while Sydney took the liberty of her obvious improvement in mindset to manage a shrug of her own, and simultaneously allowed a genuine laugh to escape as a result.

“I don’t know that you’ll feel so honored when you see what I’ve picked out for you to wear. But the sentiment is appreciated, regardless.”

“What did—what did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I really think you’d have more fun with it if you just waited, rather than me spoiling the surprise right off the bat,” Sydney quipped, sending a mischievous wink Fiona’s way, and stifling a giggle as she realized that the young woman had flushed a bit in response. When Sal had texted her to tell her to meet his newest hire, in tandem with a minimal description of the girl’s attributes, she had already started to form an idea in her mind of what to do in terms of wardrobe…

And now that Fiona was there, in person, Sydney knew that her initial gut instinct had been dead on. The only thing that remained was getting the girl to agree to such a thing without scaring her off, for good.

It would be wonderful to have someone that she might just be able to count as a friend, particularly when the other girls that worked for Sal at the bar weren’t exactly what she would call women they could trust.  
………………………………………………………………………………………………………


	8. First Night

“I can’t—I can’t wear this,” Fiona protested, her cheeks burning as she turned before the mirror in the dressing room, and fiddled with the hem of the unbelievably short skirt Sydney had selected to pair with her top. The material was very nearly see-through, with sequins interspersed at regular intervals that glimmered in the lighting attached around the perimeter of the dressing room mirror. And although she was wearing the dark blue camisole and panties that Sydney had selected, Fiona still could not help but feel overly exposed, her eyes meeting the warm brown of her newfound companion’s for a moment as she shook her head and tugged at the hem of the skirt once again, “I—it’s too—”

“It’s perfect. I promise you, Fiona, you’re going to get used to it,” Sydney assured, reaching out to place a hand upon her would-be protégé’s shoulder, and giving it a small squeeze before going on, “Trust me, compared to what some of the girls wear, it’s actually pretty conservative.”

“Conservative?”

“Yep. Definitely covers more skin than mine.”

“You’re sure?” Fiona pressed, trying to ignore the slight lurch Sydney’s confession provoked in her stomach, in favor of turning slowly on the small pedestal she stood upon to get a better look at her appearance in the mirror, “I just—I feel like—”

“Like you’re on display, even though I’m the only other one in the room right now?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, as much as I hate to say it, you get used to that, too,” Sydney advised, aware of how Fiona blanched almost immediately in response to her assertion, and sending the young woman what she hoped was a reassuring smile before she flipped a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear, and watched as the young woman completed her small circuit on the pedestal with apprehension still written plainly upon her face, “Hey—I’ve got you, okay? Sal’s going to have us on the same shift from what he said, and I’m more than willing to run interference anytime you need me to.”

“Thank you. Truly,” Fiona replied, forcing all the gratitude she could muster into the meager words, in hopes that despite her obvious discomfort, her companion would be able to recognize the sincerity in the gesture, itself, “I can’t—I can’t tell you how much that means.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just buy me a drink every now and again after a rough shift, and I’ll call it even.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good. Because I’d hate to think you weren’t going to be able to cope with the fact that we’re basically friends, now.”

“Friends?”

“Oh yeah. Unless you go around undressing in front of practical strangers often,” Sydney teased, satisfied that her remark earned the laugh she had hoped for, and joining in, herself, as Fiona stepped down from the pedestal and eyed the clothes she had worn to the shop initially with an undeniably eager gaze, “And yes, you can get back in your street clothes, now.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You know, I’m pretty sure Sal would look the other way if you needed a little something to calm you down before your first shift tonight…”

“I don’t—no. I don’t drink,” Fiona stammered, flushing again as she shimmied out of the sheer skirt, and handed it to Sydney so that it could be placed back upon its hanger while she focused on pulling her jeans on once more, and turning back to grab her shirt as well. Of course, she knew right away that the offer was simply meant as a kindness, as her nerves had likely been all too obvious to the young woman who now reached out waiting hands for the top, and camisole that somehow only made its way to just above Fiona’s navel so that she could don her loose fitting t-shirt, instead. But something about the prospect of giving in, even once, turned the blood in her veins to ice, all the same, her teeth worrying over her lower lip for just a moment before she forced herself to meet Sydney’s gaze head-on, and make some attempt at providing an explanation.

“It’s not—it’s not a moral thing. It’s just—”

“Don’t like the taste?”

“More like afraid I’ll enjoy it too much.”

“Oh. God, Fiona, I’m sorry. I really put my foot in it, didn’t I?” Sydney apologized, watching as her companion tugged her shirt over her thin frame, and finding herself rather more than grateful that the young woman still seemed willing to look her in the eyes, in spite of the apparent conflict born in her expression, “You don’t have to tell me anything—”

“No, I—it’s—it’s fine.”

“Fiona—”

“It’s fine,” Fiona assured, watching as Sydney situated her top and camisole on another hanger, and silently willing her voice not to waver as she attempted to be truthful in spite of the discomfort it caused her person, “My dad—he was—”

“Say no more,” Sydney cut in, frowning at the sudden distance that became so apparent in Fiona’s blue eyes, as though she had suddenly become lost in a memory that was not at all pleasant, “Seriously, Fiona, I get it. And I won’t be bringing it up again unless you want to talk about it.”

“I’m not too sure that I ever really will.”

“Well, if you ever need to, I’m here.”

“And I appreciate that,” Fiona said, moving to fall in beside Sydney as she turned to open the dressing room door, and finding herself almost comforted by the fact that their arms had brushed lightly against one another on the way out the door, “Really, I do.”

“I know you do. You want to know how?”

“Sure.”

“Because you’re a good person, Fiona. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be putting on such a strong front for this job when I can tell you’d rather be doing about a hundred different things.”

Whether she truly wanted to admit it or not, Fiona knew very well that Sydney had the right of it, and yet even in the face of that realization she found that she was not as embarrassed by the truth of her trepidation as she had anticipated.

Perhaps simply having someone who knew how she felt, and understood it, would help her to grow accustomed to this new job, no matter how a large part of her still balked at the prospect of being on display…

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Loud music thumped against Fiona’s eardrums as she picked her way through the crowd that had gathered at the bar later on that evening, her eyes watering as she attempted to grow accustomed to the almost choking clouds of cigarette and cigar smoke wafting around the building. Sydney had been helping her learn the ropes, so to speak, and had sent her back to the bar for a refill on some scotch for one of their tables, while she remained behind to handle a rowdier pair of gentlemen near the back of the bar. And in spite of the fact that she still cringed internally every time she felt a man’s eyes lingering on her frame for too long, Fiona found that even that reality was somehow getting easier and easier to deal with, her brow furrowing as she attempted to reconcile that realization with the nature of her current circumstances.

What did it say about her when she eventually came to shrug those lewd glances off as though they were nothing more than routine?

Determined to avoid spending too long thinking about such a thing, however, Fiona did what she could to redirect her attention back to the present, sidling up to the bar as gently as she could amidst the numerous patrons that were already hollering for more alcohol. The bartender was holding his own, of course, at least from the looks of things, a ready smile upon his lips as he handed out beers and shots left and right. And before she could lose her nerve, Fiona forced herself to slip through the small slot in the bannister surrounding the bar to join him where he worked, her lips curving into a tentative smile that she hoped did not prove more akin to a grimace before she raised her voice to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

“Sydney sent me back for more drinks? Table—table twelve?”

“Sure thing, doll,” The bartender acknowledged, risking a glance at Fiona over his right shoulder, while he simultaneously handed an eager patron a glass full to the brim with beer straight from the tap, “You’re the new girl, right?”

“I—I am, yes.”

“Well, new girl, it is a genuine pleasure to meet you. I’ve been Felix.”

“Fiona. Um—no, sorry, that’s—”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head, love, I already know who you are,” Felix joked, sending Fiona a jovial wink, and grinning openly at the apparent flush that spread across her cheeks as a result, “Syd already told me your name.”

“She did?”

“Mhmm. And I have to say, given your getup, it suits you.”

“You really think so?” Fiona inquired, watching as Felix slid another shot of tequila down the wooden surface of the bar while simultaneously using his free hand to slide two new glasses beneath the tap to prepare her requested refills.

“Sure. Sparkly little outfit—the glitter on your eyes? Couldn’t have come up with a better name than ‘Nova’ if they’d asked me firsthand.”

Unsure of exactly how to reply to that, particularly as she still did not know how she felt about adopting another name, Fiona settled instead for simply managing a faint nod, her eyes tracking his movements as he fished the two beers out from beneath the tap just as foam had started to spill over the rim of the glasses, and reached over to place them upon a fresh tray. Stepping forward so that she could grab it, and return to work, however, the young woman soon found herself stalled by the gentle pressure of a hand upon her forearm, blue eyes flicking up to meet warm brown ones while Felix took the liberty of using her sudden pause to speak once again.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Just keep your head up, and Syd and I’ll make sure you get through your shifts until you can do this in your sleep, okay?”

“O—okay,” Fiona agreed, allowing the bartender’s attempt at providing reassurance to steel her nerves, and reaching over to pick up the tray in full, so that she could turn back towards the slot in the bar railing and head out into the fray beyond. Almost immediately, the press of bodies from every side very nearly took her breath away, her lips pursing into a thin line as she did what she could to ignore it in favor of doing her job, instead. In truth, it would have been a lie to pretend that she did not feel at least slightly hopeful in the wake of Felix’s words, particularly as they seemed to coincide with Sydney’s own promises as far as they pertained to how she would not be alone, here, no matter how she may have initially feared such a thing as soon as she had taken the job. 

Some small part of her was still reluctant to trust perfect strangers, of course, but even in the face of that, Fiona found that she was inclined to try, the determination brought about by the thought prompting a faint smile as she squeezed her way between two tables in the middle of the bar, and returned to where Sydney stood waiting for her.

“I see you’ve met Felix.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” Fiona confirmed, handing Sydney the tray, and hanging back as she set the refilled glasses on the table before swiping the empty ones away, “He seems—”

“Eccentric?”

“I was going to say nice.”

“Ah, so he’s got you under his spell,” Sydney surmised, registering Fiona’s almost automatically raised brow, and sending her companion a smile as she steadied the tray filled with empty glasses on one hand, and moved back towards the area of the bar that had been cordoned off for more selective clientele, “Don’t worry, it happens to all of us at one point or another.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we’ve all been Felixed.”

“That’s a thing?” Fiona questioned, unable to entirely stop the laugh that escaped in response to the verbiage Sydney had used to describe what had apparently just transpired, “Wow.”

“It’s a good thing, at least so far, though. He helps keep the customers in line, when some of them can’t hold their liquor.”

“So, if he likes you—”

“He’s got your back,” Sydney concluded, pushing aside the velure curtain that separated the main area of the bar from the back room, where Fiona had been told the higher-paying clients often ventured to be with the girl of their choosing, “I figured he’d take to you right away.”

Taking the statement as intended, Fiona followed after her would-be trainer as she maneuvered into the darker portion of the bar, doing her best to keep her nerves about her as she fought the desire to peek into the rooms that were situated at even intervals along the wall. Each one was blocked off by a semi-sheer curtain, of course—something she had seen when Sydney gave her the tour right before opening for the night. But that still did not stall her imagination from picturing exactly what may have been going on behind the metaphorical closed doors, her heart jumping as a particularly lascivious moan echoed out from behind one of them, and her cheeks burned in response to the sound.

“Just ignore it, love. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Okay,” Fiona murmured, forcing a breath out from between slightly pursed lips, and rolling her shoulders while she watched Sydney duck into an apparently empty room, and come back with two more glasses—champagne flutes—to place upon her tray, “I’m sorry, I just—this is still—”

“New?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“It’s the only way of putting it,” Sydney corrected, stooping to place the tray she carried upon a nearby table, and reaching for Fiona’s hand to give it a reassuring squeeze before going on, “Listen, if you need to step outside for a second—”

“I don’t.”

“Fiona—”

“I’m fine,” The young woman insisted, glancing down at where Sydney’s hand held her own, and wetting her lips with a tongue for a moment so that she might summon the wherewithal to go on, “And I really am sorry I’m not better at this.”

“You don’t have to be better at this. You’re doing just fine, alright?”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Sydney promised, sending Fiona another smile, and finding herself more than a little pleased that it was returned readily enough, even in spite of her apparent apprehension, “My first time back here, I very nearly jumped out of my skin.”

“Really?”

“God, yes. You’re doing so much better than all that.”

“I suppose that’s something,” Fiona acknowledged, reaching for the tray of glasses so that Sydney could duck into another empty room to grab a few more, “I’ll take it.”

“Good. Because I think I like you too much to just let you up and quit on me.”

“Trust me, I can’t do that.”

“Would you think I’m a completely terrible person if I said I was glad about that?”

“Would you even believe me if I said yes?”

“Probably not,” Sydney admitted, inclining her head back towards the doorway they had just entered through so that her companion would take the gesture as leave to follow after her as she headed back to the bar itself, “You think you’re ready for a table of your own?”

“I—uh—sure.”

“You don’t have to be, you know—”

“No. No, really, I—I think I am,” Fiona repeated, squaring her shoulders a bit in an attempt at appearing more self-assured, and lifting a brow as she realized Sydney had managed a bit of a chuckle in response, “Hit me with your worst.”

“I wouldn’t say that around me. I might actually do it.”

“Am I supposed to be scared, now?”

“It might serve you well if you were,” Sydney suggested, coming to a stop just beside the bar, and taking the tray from Fiona’s hands just as she caught sight of a new patron making their way through the door. Though she had always prided herself on knowing most everyone that came through those doors, after having spent a little over a year working for Sal, herself, even she had to admit that she had never seen this man before…

And he was perfect.

“Him,” She decided, watching as Fiona’s gaze was drawn towards the door, and her blue eyes widened almost comically as soon as she realized exactly who was being referenced, “He’s your table. Assuming he doesn’t just go squat at the bar.”

“He looks like the sort that might,” Fiona countered, watching the man rather carefully, and biting at her lower lip as she realized her last-ditch hope that he would venture over towards the bar was incorrect, and she faced another unexpected surge in nerves, “Or—or not.”

“I meant what I said, Fiona. If you’re not ready for this, I won’t push you into it.”

“No. No, I can do it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am. Rip off the band-aid, right?”

“If it were me, getting to serve someone who looked like that, I’d say you could rip off as many band-aids as you’d like.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Now go, before I change my mind and steal him from you for myself!”

Hurrying to do what she had been told, albeit with amusement written plainly on her features, Fiona moved through the tables that were placed at uneven intervals throughout the bar to get to the table chosen by the man in question. Sydney was right, of course—objectively, at least, the man was attractive. But regardless of what she may or may not think about the man’s looks, she knew that it was far more important that she keep a level head so that she could do her best to see to his needs, without attracting the attention of her new boss, where he was seated in his office just next to the opposite end of the bar…

She would not give him a reason to reprimand her when it was only her first day.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Trial by fire, huh?”

“What?”

“Trial by fire,” Felix repeated, nodding his head in the direction of the table Fiona had carried a bottle of bourbon towards, and sending a wry smirk Sydney’s way before explaining any further, “You’ve set her up with her first customer of the night already.”

“A real one, too, from the looks of it.”

“Damn straight.”

“You’re going to take credit for this, aren’t you?” Felix quipped, rolling his eyes almost immediately in response to Sydney’s answering nod, and reaching out to swat at her shoulder as retaliation, “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

“And yet you still put up with me.”

“Yeah. Because I have to. For my job.”

“This from the guy that said if he was straight, he would take me to bed and keep me there for days,” Sydney laughed, returning the swat Felix had given her shoulder, before turning back to watch as Fiona headed their way with a slight flush upon her cheeks, “And she likes him.”

“I’d be worried about her bloody eyesight if she didn’t.”

“Whose eyesight are we talking about?”

“Yours,” Felix supplied, swiping the notepad she had been perusing after plunking down on a stool on the side of the bar opposite where he stood, “Or am I wrong to assume you’re flirting with that tall drink of water over there?”

“I—that wasn’t flirting.”

“You were smiling, sweetheart. From what Syd the Kid, here, tells me, that’s flirting for you.”

“Syd the Kid,” Fiona repeated, abandoning her embarrassment for just a moment, in favor of turning to peer back over her shoulder at the man in question, while her teeth dug into her lower lip in hopes of keeping any further flushing at bay, “That’s—unique.”

“It fits.”

“I assume there’s a story behind the nickname?”

“There is,” Felix confirmed, winking at Fiona, and leaning forward so that he could lower his voice just enough to avoid the risk of being overheard by anyone except Sydney, and the young woman he addressed, “But you’re not going to hear it until you get your cute little butt back over there, and get that man’s phone number.”

“I—no way. No, I can’t—I can’t!”

“If you don’t, I will.”

“Bold of you to assume he’s gay, Felix.”

“Bold of you to assume he’s not, Syd.”

“Okay, whether he’s gay or not, I wasn’t flirting with him!” Fiona cut in, aware of the disbelieving looks that both of her newfound companions had donned, and yet choosing to press on regardless, “I was—I was just doing my job.”

“Hey Sydney.”

“Yeah, Felix?”

“Is it just me, or is her nose getting longer?”

“You know what, I think it is,” Sydney began, only to find her efforts to continue teasing their new coworker thwarted by the reality of Fiona’s sudden decision to hop down from her stool, a smile causing one corner of her mouth to twitch even though she was clearly doing her best to avoid it in favor of scolding them, instead.

“You two are hilarious. Really funny. But if you both don’t mind, I’m going to go ahead and try to take care of my table, now. You know…in the spirit of not getting fired.”

“Do me one favor, before you go, love,” Felix called out, sharing a pleased look with Sydney as his words rather predictably caused Fiona to stop in her tracks, one brow quirked as she turned blue eyes back towards the bar and awaited his request with both arms folded across her chest.

“Yes?”

“Get his name.”

“What?”

“His name,” The bartender repeated, motioning to an already half-drunk tenant down at the end of the bar that he would be right there, and then turning his attention back towards the young woman watching him as though she were highly convinced that he may have just lost his mind in order to finish his request, “Get me his name, and we’ll see if he passes the test.”

“What test?”

“Don’t you worry about that, darling. Just get the name. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Why does your evasive response not surprise me?” Fiona wondered aloud, shaking her head at the laughter that broke out in response to her words, and yet still finding herself capable of managing a soft laugh of her own as she turned on a heel to head back towards her sole table, and away from the bar, itself. She could still feel the residual burning of her cheeks, her embarrassment not entirely abated in the wake of both Felix and Sydney’s relentless teasing. But regardless of whether or not she felt she could be certain of the intentions behind such a thing, she would have been a fool to pretend it was not a nice change…

For the first time in a very long time, she felt like an untenable situation might have just gotten a little better.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………


	9. Into the Fire

"Your friends giving you a hard time, love?" The man inquired, cocking a brow as the dark-haired young woman set down the drink she had been carrying on the surface of the table, and regarding her with an expression that was nothing short of curious while he waited for her reply. In truth, he was more than a little bit surprised to find her in a place like this, when every single reaction she had given him so far was indicative of a far more reserved persona than the usual sort that frequented a bar known for bawdy parties, and waitresses that more often than not went home with the patrons they served. In response to his inquiry, it seemed that the flush upon her cheeks had only deepened, though she still managed to give him a tentative smile in spite of that. And suddenly, the idea of what had drawn her to Aziraphale's bookshop, and persuaded the angel to take her under his wing, so to speak, all became abundantly clear. They were remarkably similar, he thought, with a shy exterior that would fool nearly everyone into believing that they would never find an occasion to be anything other than docile.

Of course, Crowley knew better than anyone that such a characteristic could, more often than not, prove to their advantage, should anyone provoke them, and witness firsthand the exact level of ferocity that no one would ever see coming…

"Not—not really. Just a little good-natured teasing," The girl admitted, one shoulder lifting in a shrug as she shifted slightly on her feet, and wet her lips with her tongue before elaborating further, "Apparently they're a bit intrigued by—well—you."

"Really. Imagine that."

"I know. I tried telling them they really shouldn't stare."

"And yet they still are," Crowley surmised, tilting his head to the side just a bit to see the individuals in question, and suppressing his own amusement at how they barely even attempted to hide their curiosity over what their newest colleague appeared to have gotten herself into, "Could always give them a show, if you wanted."

"A—what?"

"A show. Make it worth their while, so to speak."

"And how—how exactly would we do that?"

"Up to you, really. M'not in the practice of pushing women into situations they don't want."

"That's good—good to know, I suppose," Fiona stated, biting her lower lip in a failed attempt at keeping the warmth in her cheeks at bay, and glancing down at the table top so that she could gather her nerves after they had so suddenly gone haywire. Truthfully, she was surprised at how simple it seemed to talk to this man, particularly as she had never been one to feel at ease with practical strangers ever before. But even in the face of her embarrassment over his apparent teasing, Fiona found that she was not nearly as out of sorts as she might have been by spending so much time under the man's attention, her brow furrowing just a bit as she recognized the fact that her nerves were not even remotely from apprehension, but something else, entirely.

Interest…

"Can I—can I get you anything else?" She went on, silently kicking herself for allowing her shock over how this man seemed to captivate her attention far more than he truly should have been able to get the better of her, forcing her to seek escape when all that she really wanted to do was stay precisely where she was. In truth, she hated how she recoiled from conversation, as though some instinctive part of her was all but determined to lump him in with every other man she had occasion to know and distrust, to date. But even with that regret coiling in her stomach, Fiona was almost incapable of resisting the urge to take a step back, her teeth once again digging into her lower lip as she registered the man's curious expression before he managed a slight shake of the head, and began to reply.

"Nothing at all, pet. Just answer me one question, would you?"

"O—okay. What's the question?"

"Exactly what did your friends over there want you to do when you came back over to my table?"

"They—they wanted me to get your name," Fiona admitted, forcing herself to meet the man's shaded gaze head-on in hopes that she would be able to discern his reaction to the confession more accurately than she would have been if she relied on the tone of his reply, alone. She would have been lying had she tried to pretend that she was not liable to become completely lost in her investigation of his features alone, something that she highly suspected he already knew, regardless of how careful she had been in her observation of him thus far. But before she could become too enamored by the unbelievably sharp angles of his jawline, or the way in which his wealth of red hair caught the dim lighting in the interior of the bar as it fell to just barely graze against his shoulders, Fiona found herself brought back to the present by the sound of his reply to her inquiry, her posture freezing in place as she took in the lazy smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth before he spoke.

"Well that's easy, love. Anthony."

"That's—that's it?"

"That's all you get for now," The man clarified, leaning back against the chair he occupied, and regarding the young woman stood before him with an expression that was nothing if not unreadable for a moment, before going on, "Anything more, and your friends have to prove they're worth the trouble."

"Fair enough," Fiona remarked, forcing a smile to her own lips as she took another step back, her mind all but caught up in pondering the meaning behind the man's response, such that she very nearly bumped into another patron making his way to the restroom behind her as a result. She could not entirely place why the act of preparing to leave his table had rendered her determined to do anything and everything she could to think of a reason to stay put. And although she knew it was foolish, given that the likelihood of this man feeling anything even remotely similar as it pertained to her presence was all but non-existent, Fiona found that she was sparing one final glance at her lone table's occupant, a slow breath escaping her lungs before she gave him the smallest shreds of an excuse to call her back to his side once again, if he so chose.

"Feel free to flag me down if—if you change your mind about needing anything else. I—I'm here all night."

"Will do, pet. Will do."

Smiling a bit at the reassurance, however slim it may have been in truth, Fiona managed one more faint nod for the man's benefit before she was turning on a heel and heading back towards the bar, her eyes widening as she realized that Sydney and Felix appeared to have been watching her avidly the entire time she had been away. Of course, she knew they would expect nothing less than a full report, given their apparent interest in her reaction to her first customer as an employee at Sal's bar. And although she would have been a fool to pretend she was not at least a little bit reluctant to share the experience with anyone else, limited as it may have been, Fiona found that she was also more than a little grateful that she had someone who cared about it one way or another, as well.

After being on her own for so long, camaraderie was certainly a welcome change.

…

"Did either of you happen to see that man's arse as he walked out of here?" Felix inquired, busying himself with the task of wiping down the bar while Sydney and Fiona took care of gathering up any stray glasses or plates remaining on the tables after closing time to bring them in back for a wash, "I never thought I would find a man that could rival my own signature strut—"

"That's because you're unprofessionally biased about that strut, Felix," Sydney quipped, chucking the rag she had been using to tidy up a few of the tables towards the bartender, and laughing at his affronted expression when the rag hit him square in the face, "But yes, we did see it. Didn't we, Fiona?"

"I wasn't—I wasn't exactly paying attention."

"Right. And I can smell the lie in that statement from a mile away."

"I wasn't!" Fiona protested, unable to resist the soft laugh that broke free in response to the teasing she was receiving from her coworkers, and shifting the tray she carried to one hand so that she could snag an empty beer bottle from a table adjacent to the bar, "I was working."

"Sure you were, love. Keep telling yourself that," Felix joked, grinning openly at Fiona's obviously quirked brow, and lobbing the rag that had smacked him in the face towards the bucket of soapy water he kept beneath the counter of the bar, "I'm going to my grave saying you were ogling him, whether you admit to it or not."

"Keep tormenting her, and you may be going to that grave sooner rather than later, Felix. You know what they say—"

"It's the quiet ones you've always got to watch out for?"

"I'm not that quiet," Fiona interjected, aware of the skeptical expression that passed between her two coworkers, and choosing to ignore it in favor of ducking into the back room to rid herself of the collected glassware in her arms before going on, "Well, I'm not."

"Certainly seems like you are to me. What do you think, Syd?"

"Methinks she doth protest too much."

"Well if I'd known the two of you were going to gang up on me from day one, I might have questioned myself over taking this job."

"No, you wouldn't have," Sydney countered, placing her own tray on a table she had just cleaned, and stepping forward to loop her arm through Fiona's to pull the young woman closer to her side, "You already love us too much to believe that."

"What gives you that idea?"

"Let's just call it a woman's intuition."

"Easy on the hints at sexism, ladies. I'll have you both know I had the same suspicions, myself, and I am most certainly not a woman," Felix warned, tossing his towel into the same bucket beneath the bar, and stooping to pick the object up by its handle to carry it to the back room for dumping in the sink, "Though I am really good at reading them."

"Don't you listen to him, Fiona. He's just trying to save his ego since we've clearly found someone a bit slinkier than he is."

"I heard that!"

"You were meant to!" Sydney retorted, watching Felix's retreating frame with a smile gracing her lips, and turning back towards Fiona as she decided to try for a different tactic when it came to obtaining details about the bar's enigmatic new client, "So—for a girl who's more than a little reserved, our mutual friend seemed to have something of an effect on you."

"Is this more of the—intuition—you mentioned, then?"

"It may be."

"So, you wouldn't be willing to consider that it may be—off?" Fiona suggested, regarding Sydney as cautiously as she dared, even in spite of the fact that she knew her newfound friend was eyeing her own reactions just as carefully in return. In truth, the idea of the curiosity that Sydney seemed to feel was not as unnerving as Fiona thought it should have been, given her relative lack of exposure to anyone that had ever made such a showing seem genuine in the past. But that fact notwithstanding, she was still uncertain of her ability to endure more good-natured teasing than she already had—something that Sydney seemed to pick up on if the gentle smile that took over her features was any indication in time with the gentle squeeze that she gave to Fiona's arm before she replied.

"It can be if you really want it to."

"Maybe I do. For—for now."

"Okay. Consider it done," Sydney agreed, turning her head just a bit as Felix came back from the kitchen area, empty bucket in hand, and addressing him just as he had been opening his mouth, likely for another comment about their new patron and his alluring nature, "And you—behave yourself."

"What? I am the epitome of well-behaved," The bartender pouted, lifting one hand to make a mime of a halo above his head, only to drop that hand back to his side as the disbelieving glances on both his companion's faces became far too obvious to ignore, "Okay, maybe I'm only well-behaved on Sundays."

"You're going to behave yourself on more than just Sundays where Mister Tall, Sexy and Mysterious is concerned, Felix. From where I'm standing, looks like Fiona, here, has first dibs."

"Dibs? I don't—I never said I wanted dibs—" Fiona began, the flush upon her cheeks renewing itself with a vengeance, despite the fact that it had only just managed to disappear, "I never said that."

"You didn't have to, love," Sydney put in, removing her arm from its place looped through Fiona's own, in favor of slinging it around her shoulders instead, and drawing the new hire closer towards Felix so that she could do the same to him, "Felix and I thought of it all on our own."

"Something tells me I don't have much of a shot at changing your minds," Fiona mused, glancing between Sydney, and Felix, and releasing an amused sigh as she realized they had almost immediately nodded their heads in confirmation of her spoken suspicion, "I thought as much."

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm only going to be a tiny pain in the arse about this, so there's really nothing to fret about."

"And that means, of course, that he's going to be a rather large pain in the arse," Sydney clarified, dragging her two companions towards the door of the bar, only pausing for long enough to manage a curt nod for their boss, where he sat leafing through a newspaper at a table beside the door, "We're headed out, Sal. Our girl, here, did great on her first night."

"Never doubted that she would. Do me a favor and see to it that you two don't scare her away for me, will ya? Her new friend from a bit ago left a hefty tip, and I'm not about to turn away that kind of income if I can help it."

"Sure thing, Sal. Night."

"Yeah, yeah. See all of ya later on."

In lieu of any form of reply, Sydney occupied herself with the task of steering Fiona and Felix out of the door, the steady clunk it made behind them causing her to breathe a sigh of relief despite the questioning gaze that lingered upon Fiona's face in response to the news that had just been disclosed. It was odd, she thought, how quickly she had taken to this new girl, where she had never felt such an instinctive need to watch over any of Sal's other girls when they first came on the job in the past. But something about this particular girl, as out of place as she was in their current line of work, had seemed endearing almost from the start, and so Sydney allowed herself the small liberty of a half-smile as Fiona shivered just a bit in the chill of the night air, her breath gusting out in little clouds of steam as she gave voice to the question Sydney had known would come all along.

"What does he mean—left a hefty tip?"

"He means the bloke clearly enjoyed your service," Felix explained, aware of the mystified expression that had taken over their new companion's features, and endeavoring to finish his explanation with a bemused smile upon his lips, "If I were you, lovely, I would very much expect to be seeing him again."

Though she would never have admitted to such a thing out loud, the thought did make Fiona smile, her hand coming up to conceal it under the guise of brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face as she moved to follow her two companions as they headed off down the street.

She would have been a liar to pretend that the prospect of seeing the man for a second time did not set her heart to pounding, and fill her with a strangely fervent hope that she would be able to summon a more successful conversation the next time around.

…

Crowley followed along after the trio departing the bar from the opposite side of the street, both hands stowed part way inside his trouser pockets as he sauntered down the sidewalk as though he had not a care in the world. Though he was almost loathe to admit to such a thing, the demon was still more than a little startled that he had found the girl at all, as it was only a stroke of pure luck that he had surmised who she was, in the first place. But now that he did have conclusive proof that the young girl he had saved all those years ago was, in fact, the very same young woman Aziraphale had employed, he would have been a fool to pretend he was not all but determined to find out more about her…

There was something more to the girl than met the eye, and whether or not his own presence in her life would complicate it as Aziraphale seemed to fear that it would, Crowley had never been one to allow his own curiosity to go untended.

Determined by the thought, the demon continued following after the girl as she parted ways from her other companions, the hints of their concern over her heading the rest of the way home alone falling on deaf ears as she managed one final, tentative smile for them both before turning on a heel and heading in the direction opposite them. It was clear she knew the area well, though that did not seem to be enough to allow her to walk along the sidewalk without her shoulders hunching inward in a gesture so defensive Crowley was amazed she had allowed herself to trust her two coworkers so quickly in spite of an apparently instinctive apprehension she seemed to feel towards the world as a whole.

Surprises like that, though, always seemed to come in all shapes and sizes.

Just another tribute to the so-called ineffable plan that Aziraphale was always yammering on about…

With a short laugh in response to the thought of the angel's reaction if he knew exactly what this girl had gotten herself into now, Crowley followed after her as she jogged across a nearby intersection and headed down the street perpendicular to the one housing the bar, the tension in her slight frame visible even from a distance as she skirted around two loiterers in an alley not long after her change in direction. For their part, they didn't seem to pay her any mind, far too caught up in whatever activity had led them to their current location to begin with to even notice her passing. But the fact that they unnerved her so much that her pace quickened as she continued to move away from them was not lost on the demon, his own steps picking up just a bit as he endeavored to not let her stray too far from his sight.

In his experience, sometimes too much in the way of a show of wariness could lure those with less than savory intentions far more quickly than a display of casual indifference, and he would have hardly been worth all the bluster he put forth for his cohorts in Hell if he failed to pick up on the very real aura of something not quite pleasant lurking in the vicinity, whether or not he wanted to acknowledge that realization himself.

Continuing to follow after the girl as she headed further down the block, Crowley found himself startled by the briefest contemplation of whether or not he might be the 'something' unpleasant in question, the idea not quite as preposterous as he may have wanted to believe as he recalled exactly what Aziraphale had said regarding the prospect of ever coming face to face with the girl again. He would have been the first to admit he harbored no ill-intentions towards the girl, no matter the consequences such a confession may have brought upon him as a result if the wrong people became aware of it. And although he had not picked up on any signs of hesitation from the girl, other than that brought about by her own intrinsic shyness back at the bar, the demon was more than a little preoccupied by the fact that perhaps she might have been better at concealing her reaction to him than he initially believed.

Or, at least he was, until he rounded another street corner not long after she did, herself, and found himself face to face with someone far more sinister than he could ever be.

"Fancy meeting you here, Crowley—" The unfortunately familiar voice intoned, something not all that far from a vindictive sort of pleasure seeping into his tone as he stepped out of a nearby alleyway, and blocked his fellow demon's path in one easy move, "Out for a little night air, hmm?"

"Might be," Crowley confirmed, effecting an air of nonchalance as he glanced from the tall, yellow-haired demon who had addressed him, to the stockier, darker-skinned creature at his side, "What's it to you, Hastur?"

"Just checking in. Seeing why you're out here, on your own, when you should be looking after the anti-Christ."

"Boy's fine. Probably sleeping by now, back at his mum and dad's. Not much trouble he can get in as a baby, am I right?"

"Trouble comes in all shapes and sizes, Crowley. You know that," The shorter of the two demons growled, darting a glance over his shoulder at the retreating form of the dark-haired girl, and allowing a sly grin to twist at the corners of his mouth before going on, "She's a pretty lil' thing, ain't she?"

"No idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, I don't think that's exactly true. You were followin' her," Ligur pressed, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer to his adversary, and finding him more than a little displeased when he saw not even a flicker of anything even remotely akin to panic in the taller man's expression, "Why?"

"Why, what?"

"You know very well what—"

"Actually, I don't think I do."

"Deny it all you like, Crowley. We know what you're about," Hastur cut in, placing a restraining hand upon his shorter companion's shoulder, and stepping up beside him with his head cocked to the side in a combination of wry amusement, and open distrust, "And we're here to tell you she's not yours to corrupt."

"Who says I'm corrupting anyone?" Crowley denied, bringing his shoulders up in a shrug, though he highly suspected it would do nothing to assuage the obvious suspicions of the two demons stood before him, "S'like I said. Just walking down the street."

"Our lord and master wants her for himself. And after what you did, getting in the way of his initial plan to sway her to our side, well—let's just say he doesn't exactly trust you to do the job, yourself."

"What job might that be, then? Getting her to turn tricks for her boss at the bar?"

"Oh, no. What our master has in mind is far better than all that," Hastur assured, a grim smile curving his lips as he dropped his hand from Ligur's shoulder, back to his side, and regarding Crowley for a beat of silence before doing his best to ensure the words he spoke were laced with all the threat he could summon to his disposal.

"And you would be wise to leave her to us, lest you wish to suffer the consequences for meddling in an affair that does not concern you."

The two demons disappeared not long after the words had been spoken, the aura of menace travelling with them as they disappeared back down the alley from which they had come as though they truly had never been there at all. In the time since they had thwarted his progress, Crowley had, in fact, lost track of the girl he had been following, any indicator of her presence having disappeared not long after she had, herself. And so, in lieu of attempting to discern where she had gone, the demon simply turned and headed back in the way from which he had come, his thoughts turning inward as he ambled down the street, paying hardly any attention to his surroundings at all, as he went.

Hastur and Ligur could threaten all they liked, but he could hardly abandon the girl now, when she did not even know that she was about to be in over her head…

…


	10. The Roommate

In contrast to what she had anticipated when she first agreed to take the job, Fiona found that the next few nights working in Sal's bar were almost pleasant, the steady presence of both Sydney and Felix throughout making the potentially awkward nature of the task far more bearable than it would have been otherwise. As they had predicted, the tall stranger with the sunglasses came back each night, somehow finding a way to a table in her section no matter how that assignment shifted from night to night as the week wore on. Sal was more than happy to accept his constant presence, as the proclaimed hefty tip that had been left behind was repeated time and time again. And in spite of all her efforts to the contrary, Fiona found herself almost completely incapable of pushing the enigmatic man from her thoughts even when she was not at the bar, her cheeks flushing every time she thought of his lazy sprawl in the chair, or the half-smile he gave her on occasion whenever she said something she hoped would be at least mildly amusing.

She was being ridiculous. She knew that for a certainty. But even in spite of that fact, she just could not seem to stop…

If she didn't know any better, she might even say this was becoming an obsession.

"Stop it. You're being ridiculous," Fiona murmured, dragging a hand through her hair, and attempting for what felt like the thousandth time that day to return her focus to the dish she had been scrubbing as though her life depended upon it. She had the night off, surprisingly, and had been attempting to use it to her advantage, cleaning up a few things around her flat, and catching up on some chores that had been put off in favor of catching as much sleep as she could in between shifts.

Of course, that was a thing that was far easier said than done, since her thoughts persisted in their idle wanderings, and she was forced to finish with the dish in her hand and reach down to drain the water from the sink, having decided that no matter her best intentions, nothing else that was even remotely productive was going to occur that night.

Maneuvering from the kitchen into the den, Fiona flopped down on the sofa with a resigned sigh, one hand automatically reaching for the remote even though she knew full-well she was not likely to retain anything she watched on the television at the moment. If for no other reason than to have some sort of noise in the flat, however, the young woman persisted in flicking numbly through the channels, until she settled on a cooking show of some sort. And as she settled back into the cushions, Fiona allowed her eyes to drift closed, her body shifting just a bit as she attempted to stretch out sore muscles, and think of anything other than the man that seemed to have captivated her attention so completely with just a few moments of idle conversation.

As the chef elaborated on how to create a cheesecake to die for, Fiona did what she could to keep her thoughts as carefully trained on the dialogue as she could, her stomach giving a faint rumble that had a grin toying at her lips even in the face of her frustration over her preoccupation with the stranger from the bar. For a moment, she found herself half-tempted to try a venture to the store to procure some last-minute baking supplies, wondering if that may succeed in deterring her troublesome thoughts, where nothing else could. But before she could summon the wherewithal to reach for the remote once more to shut off the television, the sound of a sharp knock on the door reached her ears, causing her to flinch, her brow furrowing as she rose and padded over to answer the knock with her heart picking up speed, hammering against the cage of her chest.

She was not expecting a visitor, but then again, when was she ever?

Rolling her shoulders in hopes that the gesture would be enough to relieve the tension that had already taken over her frame, Fiona reached forward to pull the door open, her expression shifting to one of astonishment, rather than wariness, as she realized exactly who it was that stood on the other side. For a moment, she could do nothing other than remain frozen in place, her eyes blown wide as she stared at the newcomer as though doubting her ability to identify them accurately.

Or at least, she remained frozen until the man standing before her emitted a ghost of a laugh, his lips drawing into a taut smile as he held out both arms and regarded Fiona with a cocked brow before he spoke.

"Is stunned silence any way to greet your old man?"

"What are—what are you doing here, Dad?" The young woman managed, trying to ignore the sweating in her palms, and stowing them in the pocket of her jeans in hopes that her would-be guest would not notice how they had started to tremble as a result of his presence, "I didn't—I thought you were still in rehab."

"Got out early, Fi. Guess that means I'm healed."

"When did you get out?"

"Does it really matter?" The man inquired, stepping past his daughter's slight frame, and walking into her flat, his eyes traversing everything within his line of sight as though seeking to commit it to memory, "I'm here, now, darlin'. That's all that means anything."

"You might be the only one that thinks that way," Fiona replied, shutting the door behind her father, and folding her arms across her chest as though the gesture would truly stand a chance at fending him off, should their impromptu visit go awry, "What—what made you decide to come and see me?"

"A man needs an excuse to visit his only daughter?"

"When that man did what you did, I'd say he does."

"What would you say if I told you this was me, making amends?"

"I thought you once said Lars Matheson didn't need to make amends."

"Rehab changed me, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you," The man pleaded, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer to where Fiona stood, only to find that she took a step back at precisely the same time, "You can't still be afraid of me, love—"

"Actually, I think I can."

"When is this going to stop, Fiona? You can't keep hating me forever."

Remaining silent and chewing on her lower lip to prevent herself from making a reply that would not be likely to do her any favors, Fiona settled instead for moving on shaking limbs to the sofa so that she could perch upon its edge, fervently aware of how her father kept his gaze upon her the entire time. Surprisingly, he did not move to follow her, instead seeming content to simply remain in the center of the den, watching her as a predator might evaluate its prey. But that did not mean that she felt any more comfortable in his presence, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she finally gathered the courage required to speak once again.

"I—I don't hate you, Dad."

"Could've fooled me. You act like seeing me on your doorstep is the worst thing in the world," Lars complained, his heavy footsteps as he perused the den echoing in the otherwise silent room, while Fiona remained perched on the edge of the sofa as though she had been etched in stone, "I missed you."

"What else did you come here for?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the last time we spoke, you wanted money," Fiona clarified, silently grateful that her voice did not waver, even though holding her ground where her father was concerned had always tied her stomach in knots, "What—what is it this time?"

"You make it sound like the only reason I ever visit you is for material gain, Fi."

"Don't call me that."

"It's your name, isn't it?"

"My name is Fiona."

"I've always called you Fi, love," Lars protested, eyeing his daughter with something not all that far from incredulity as she bit her lip for a moment, and shook her head in abject denial of his words, "But if you don't want a pet name, then I won't give you one. Just so long as you tell me one thing."

"What's that?"

"What do you want?"

"I need a place to stay, Fiona. Was hoping I could stay here, with you. At least 'til I get back on my feet."

Astonished, to say the least, at the boldness behind her father's request, and the way he eyed her as though he truly believed she would say yes as eagerly as any other girl that had been blessed with a normal relationship with their father, Fiona remained silent for a moment or two, in hopes that she could come up with a response that would not land her in more trouble than she appeared to be in already.

She could find none.

"I only have one bedroom," She began, clenching and unclenching her hands on top of the fabric of her jeans, and doing the best she could to keep her breaths even, despite her father's apparently unphased reply.

"The couch and I are very old friends. We'll get along just fine."

"Dad—"

"You can't really intend to turn me away, can you? I've got nowhere else to go."

"And whose fault is that?"

Before she could even begin to attempt to take the hastily spoken words back, Fiona found herself emitting a startled yelp as her father closed the distance between them in seconds flat, the fingers of one hand curling around her arm to yank her up while the other fisted itself in her dark hair. Once again, she felt like the little girl she had been so many years ago, forcing back the tears that stung at the corners of her eyes in order to avoid provoking her father further than he already was. And although Fiona would have given anything to find some way to fend him off, she was completely incapable of doing so, a ragged gasp escaping as her father gave a hard tug to her hair, before leaning forward to growl in her ear.

"Yours."

"Dad—"

"Don't 'Dad' me, Fiona. It's not going to work," Lars hissed, tightening the hold he had on his daughter's arm, and suppressing a grin as she flinched almost immediately in response, "I tried to be nice, you know. To come to you and ask for help properly. But you just couldn't let that work, could you?"

"I didn't—"

"You didn't what?"

"I didn't mean for it to—to come off that way," Fiona murmured, squirming against her father's hold, and finding, as she might have predicted, that it didn't sway him in the least, "You can—you can let me go."

"Only when you tell me your couch is mine for the foreseeable future," Lars persisted, once again squeezing Fiona's arm until she emitted a faint whine of protest, and began nodding her head fervently beneath the steely weight of his gaze, "Use your words, love. I need to hear you say it."

"You can—you can stay. For as long as you need."

"There, now. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Instead of waiting for her to reply, Lars settled instead for simply shoving his daughter away from him so that she tumbled back upon the sofa in a trembling heap, his head tilting to the side as she shrank in on herself as she had every other time he had threatened her, before. Truthfully, he was surprised she had even attempted to put up a fight, now, when such a tactic had never been in her arsenal when her mother was still alive. But regardless of whether she had attempted to seem bolder than she was or not, it was no secret that his daughter were every bit as much a coward as she had been as a young girl, the realization causing Lars' lips to stretch into a smile as he crouched down beside her once more to brush a stray lock of dark hair away from her brow.

"You and I are gonna have so much fun together. Like a little family reunion…"

…

The following day, Fiona sat in an upstairs corner of Aziraphale's bookshop, her progress of repairing the binding of a particularly old volume of poems hindered by the repeated trembling that attacked her hand in fits and spurts as a result of her lingering nerves, and the evening of very poor sleep she had endured the night before. All night, she could hear her father snoring, loud rumbling sounds that seemed to jar the very walls. And although she had somehow been capable of tiptoeing out of the flat before he woke up, Fiona would have been a liar had she pretended to be anything other than terrified of the prospect of returning to her flat later on that evening.

If she could have stayed in the bookshop for the entire night, she would have, but then that would mean telling Aziraphale what was going on, and she was not about to bring him into something that would only risk getting him hurt.

Frowning at the thought, Fiona did what she could to resettle her attention to the task of repairing the book's binding, her molars grinding together as she flexed her fingers in an effort to stall the trembling therein. She wanted so badly to simply lose herself in the task at hand, forgetting all about what awaited her in her flat when she was done for the day. But it was apparent that she was not about to be that lucky, the binding glue held in her hand dropping to the top of the desk once and causing her to emit a soft curse under her breath just as the soft creak of footsteps on the stairs reached her ears, signifying she was no longer alone.

"Do you intend to hide away up here all day, my dear?"

"I—no. No, sorry, I just—I think I'm almost done," Fiona began, biting her lip in an attempt at preventing the flush she could feel rising to her cheeks, despite the fact that she knew the act to be futile, "I didn't mean for this to take so long, Zee, I'm sorry."

"There is no need to be, Fiona. I was simply worried about you spending so much time on your own," Aziraphale clarified, regarding the young woman with a quizzical glance for a moment, and deciding to step just a little bit closer as the young woman pursed her lips, and attempted to return to the task of finishing the binding repair she had sequestered herself away with earlier that morning, "Is there—anything I might help you with?"

"You mean—you mean with the book?"

"I mean with you in general, my dear. I would be remiss if I were to pretend I did not notice that something was troubling you."

"I'm—I'm fine," Fiona stammered, keeping her eyes on the binding glue she applied in hopes that the act of avoiding her employer's gaze would give her the fortitude she needed to continue the lie, in spite of her misgivings over not being forthcoming with him in the first place, "I guess I'm just frustrated that I'm not better at this by now, considering how often I've done it."

"You are doing very well, you know. Even if you don't want to believe it, yourself."

"Thank you, Zee."

"My pleasure," The angel replied, managing a faint smile for the young woman's benefit, and finding himself more than a little perplexed when her answering grin failed to reach her eyes, "Are you quite certain you are alright?"

"Absolutely."

"And the—the dreams you were having, before? They haven't—"

"They haven't returned," Fiona supplied, finishing with the binding, and risking a glance towards Aziraphale as a result, only to realize his expression was the epitome of genuine concern, "They haven't, Zee, I promise. I'd—I'd tell you if they had."

"Would you feel more at ease if I ventured back downstairs?" Aziraphale asked, aware of how Fiona had tensed just a bit in response to the question, though she made to answer before he could even begin to rephrase the inquiry.

"You know, I—I actually think I would be better off with a little company. If—if you don't mind."

"Not at all, my dear."

Smiling by way of thanks at Aziraphale's ready acceptance of her request, Fiona shifted in the chair she occupied in an attempt to face him more directly, her hands fidgeting in her lap for a moment as she tried to determine if she truly wanted to tell him everything that had transpired since she had seen him last, or not. She knew he would worry, and may even feel compelled to intervene if things turned as sour with her father as she feared. But inasmuch as she did not want her employer to feel as though he had to do anything to help, Fiona was every bit as reluctant to simply remain silent, knowing that if she did, eventually, she may end up in over her head with no way out at all.

"Can—would you mind if I told you something. Just—hypothetically?" She inquired, forcing herself to continue to hold Aziraphale's gaze in spite of the nerves that twisted in the pit of her stomach, and came very near to making her sick. As she might have expected, her employer gave a ready nod, his expression nothing if not encouraging, as though he truly intended to listen to her without passing judgment over her choices, or her inability to do what was best for herself, regardless of apparent parental expectation. And even though she had taken great pains to stress that this was hypothetical, only, Fiona would have been blind to miss how the look in Aziraphale's eyes seemed to indicate he knew that it was anything but.

"You remember what I told you about—about my father?"

"I do," Aziraphale confirmed, watching Fiona's reaction carefully, and noting that she appeared to consider her next words carefully before she spoke.

"He was—he was in rehab for—"

"For what, my dear?"

"Alcoholism. He's been in and out of different facilities for years, but it never really stuck," Fiona confessed, averting her gaze in order to avoid encountering any potential scorn in her employer's expression, as she knew that if she did see such a thing, she would only be worse off than she was right now, "Apparently, he—got out."

"Are we still speaking in hypotheticals, Fiona?" The angel pressed, frowning a bit as he realized the young woman was still rather pointedly avoiding his gaze, "Please, understand, I—I'm not attempting to pry—"

"Believe me, Zee, I would never think you could. But—yes. Yes, this is—he hypothetically got out."

"And you are, perhaps, hypothetically fearful of what that may mean for you?"

"I—I am," Fiona said, glancing up at her companion, and tugging a hand through dark hair in a half-hearted attempt at relieving the tension she could feel creeping in between her shoulder blades, "We didn't exactly have the easiest relationship when I was growing up."

"I'm afraid alcohol will have quite a lot to do with something like that."

"And the—the fact that he hated my mother."

"Oh, my dear, I—I am certain he could not have—"

"He hated her," Fiona repeated, hating that she was suddenly so forthcoming with information that she ordinarily preferred to keep to herself, and yet finding that somehow, she still seemed all but incapable of stopping, regardless, "He hated her for tying him down with a baby, when he wanted to see the world."

"That baby, I suppose, was—"

"Me. Yes."

"But your mother? She was different?" Aziraphale mused, the hopeful nature of his tone clearly provoking a slight twitch at the corner of Fiona's mouth, though it did not turn into a full-fledged smile as she replied in the affirmative.

"She was the exact opposite. She adored me, and I think—I think that made him hate me, too."

"You don't—you don't believe he would come back to harm you, do you?"

"Truthfully? I really don't know," Fiona began, registering the apparent concern that became so apparent upon her companion's features in the wake of her response, and hurrying to waylay it as best she could as a result, "But I'm sure I'm just—just overthinking things, like always."

"If it troubles you so much, I highly doubt that you are imagining it at all."

"Well, either way, I suppose I do feel a bit better just getting it off of my chest," The young woman went on, schooling her expression into what she hoped would be a reassuring expression, and forcing a tremulous smile to her lips as she elaborated further, "I—thank you. For—for always being willing to listen to these crazy thoughts whenever they run through my head."

"You would tell me if something were truly wrong, wouldn't you?" Aziraphale questioned, watching the young woman seated before him far more intently than usual, and hoping beyond hope that she did not take the gesture as offensive in any way. He had been right, he suspected, when he initially found her hidden away on the upper floor of his shop, to suppose that something had bothered her greatly, particularly as she was normally far more interactive on a day to day basis. And, in spite of her insistence that her concerns over her father were purely hypothetical, something about the way she seemed to remain alert, as though expecting the man to burst through the door of the shop at any moment told him that she may just be attempting to bite off more than she could chew.

If she truly were in danger from a man that he believed had already attempted to kill her once, then perhaps Aziraphale would be best suited by inquiring the appropriate entities upstairs once she went home for the day, just to be safe.

"Of course—of course I would," Fiona finally acquiesced, folding her hands together in her lap, and forcing herself to exhale in a shaky rush before going on, "But it's all completely—"

"Hypothetical. Yes. Of course."

"Shall I grab us some tea, then? Perhaps a spot of lunch?" The young woman offered, forcing herself to stand, and willing her limbs not to shake beneath her weight as she watched a flicker of doubt move across Aziraphale's features for a moment, before he nodded his assent.

"Certainly, my dear. Though I—I encourage you not to wait for me, if I am not here when you return. There is something I—I have to take care of, that I just remembered, and it absolutely cannot wait."

Nodding in agreement, and offering her employer and friend another tentative smile, Fiona began the task of moving towards the staircase that would lead to the floor below, grabbing her purse along the way, and securing it to her shoulder before her hand landed upon the banister and she began to step down. In spite of the lingering trepidation that remained in the wake of her father's sudden appearance, she was rather relieved that she had managed to alleviate Aziraphale's suspicions, or so it seemed on the surface. And so, she was able to finish the trek down the staircase, and head out the front door with relative ease, the little tinkle of the bell hardly registering as she began to move off down the crowded street towards the sandwich shop she knew her employer favored, and tried her best to force her worries over her father to the back of her mind.

Perhaps, if she was lucky, she would be able to convince Aziraphale to join her for dinner, as well, and prolong her return home just a bit more as a result…

…


	11. Connections

"Forgive me if I am misunderstanding you, Aziraphale, but it seems as though you are actually suggesting that we help-a human girl."

"Well-yes," The angel confirmed, aware of the skeptical expressions on not only Michael's, but Uriel's and Gabriel's faces as well, as though the prospect of lending their assistance where they could to a mere human were akin to a confession that they might have enjoyed the idea of another plague, "She's been working in my bookshop for a while, now, and-"

"And you feel obligated to divert our considerable resources towards her, instead of more important matters."

"I fail to see how lending our assistance to someone falls outside of the realm of the divine plan."

"What are you hoping to save her from?" Gabriel inquired, his expression nothing short of incredulous as he glanced towards his two companions for a brief moment, before returning his attention towards Aziraphale, who was standing a mere few feet away, "She'll be dead along with the rest of them in a few years, anyway. What's the point?"

"Gabriel is right, Aziraphale. It would not be prudent to protect one human when there are so many other tasks that are far more important, at the moment."

"But-surely you must be aware of her situation," Aziraphale pressed, his fingers interlocking in front of the well-worn fabric of his waistcoat, knotted together in clear evidence of his mounting distress. He had been sure, at the start of his endeavor, that he would be able to find someone that would prove sympathetic to Fiona's plight, no matter how long it may have taken him to find that person, first-hand. But now, it seemed as though all of his hopes had been for naught, the obvious amusement at his insistence on sparing a second thought for a human, of all things, that had taken over the features of his three cohorts seeming to indicate that he was not about to receive the favorable outcome he had hoped for, at all, "Her father is a-a rather irascible drunk!"

"Then she should consider herself lucky that she will not have long to suffer his presence in her life."

"He murdered her mother, Michael!"

"And that requires us to devote countless resources to protecting her above all else?"

"It should."

"Explain," Uriel demanded, one dark brow quirked in obvious disbelief at the idea that Aziraphale would ever stand a chance at providing suitable explanation for his apparent desire to take action, "Tell us why she matters so much to you, and we may consent to help."

"She-I happen to consider her a very dear friend."

"That's all?" Gabriel scoffed, shaking his head in obvious amusement over the ridiculousness of the entire situation, and stepping forward to clap Aziraphale on the shoulder before the other angel ever had a chance to recoil, "You're certain there's nothing else special about this girl?"

"I'm afraid I don't quite-I don't quite see what you mean."

"I mean, with how you seem so determined to keep her safe, one might almost be persuaded to believe she's been a part of your life in ways other than what one might engage in at your bookshop."

"Oh, I don't know, Gabriel. The bookshop might prove decent quarters for certain things, as well."

"I-I never!" Aziraphale exclaimed, flushing beneath the influence of both Gabriel and Michael's blatant laughter, as well as the suggestion that became so apparent in their expressions as well, "I would never presume to-to take advantage of her in such a way! What you suggest is-well, it is completely out of the question!"

"Why? They're just toys, after all. Or at least they are, as far as we are concerned," Michael suggested, sharing a thin smile with Uriel, before turning her attention towards Aziraphale once more, "Why not have a little fun before they're gone, altogether?"

"I can assure you, Michael, this young woman hardly deserves to be toyed with."

"Perhaps I might be able to appease you, Aziraphale, by taking a look at what you think is so troubling to this girl, myself," Gabriel cut in, aware of the startled and somewhat suspicious expressions that had taken over the faces of both Uriel, and Michael as well, and yet choosing to press on, regardless, a half-grin tugging at one corner of his mouth as he spoke, "After all, it's been some time since I've been-down below. Might do me some good to get a change of scenery."

"I-you will agree to help her, then?"

"If I feel it necessary, Aziraphale, I suppose I will."

"Oh thank you. Thank you," The angel enthused, relief allowing his fingers to unknot themselves, even in spite of how some small part of him did not feel at all comfortable with the strange glint that had taken root in Gabriel's eyes, "When should I expect you?"

"Soon enough," Gabriel informed, dropping his hand from its place upon Aziraphale's shoulder, in favor of stepping back to stand between Uriel and Michael, only the slightest of glances towards the latter giving her any indication that he had a different plan in mind than what Aziraphale himself seemed to suspect, "But Aziraphale?"

"Yes, Gabriel?"

"Do yourself a favor, and enjoy this girl while you have her. It might not be too long until someone tries to take her off your hands."

…

Fiona sat before the mirror in the changing room at the back of Sal's bar, her lips pursed into a frown as she attempted to apply some concealer to the finger-shaped bruises encircling her arm with little to no luck at all. Of course, she could hope that the dimness of the bar's interior lighting might keep it hidden away, particularly when coupled with the darker sheer fabric of her top. But that still did not entirely prove enough to assuage her lingering fears that someone would discover it, regardless, a sigh escaping as she reached for the tiny bottle of concealer on the table before her, only to find herself flinching in surprise as the sharp squeal of protesting hinges indicated that someone had opened the door in order to enter the changing room, themselves.

"There you are," A familiar voice called, the click of stiletto heels indicating Sydney's approach, and forcing Fiona to scramble to rearrange her expression into something less apprehensive as she felt the other woman come to a stop at her side, and place a hand upon her shoulder not that long thereafter, "Sal's about ready to open the doors, and he was asking about you."

"I'm almost done," Fiona managed, forcing a smile that she knew almost immediately did not pass muster, if the slight lift of one of Sydney's perfectly sculpted brows was any indication at all, "I am, I swear."

"Uh-huh. That's not what I'm worried about."

"What-what are you worried about, then?"

"I'll give you three guesses," Sydney quipped, shifting to pull over one of the unused chairs that was left by the mirror used by one of the other girls who had already vacated the room in favor of venturing back towards the bar, and taking a seat beside her coworker and friend with a soft sigh before going on, "Something's bothering you."

"I-no. No, I'm fine."

"And I'm the Queen of England."

"Well then, in that case, Your Majesty, I think we both ought to get to work before Sal finds a reason to fire us," Fiona suggested, abandoning the bottle of concealer as a lost cause, and rising to make a mock curtsy for Sydney's benefit, only to find herself flinching in surprise as her friend reached for, and secured her wrist in a gentle hold that had her entire body freezing in seconds, flat, "Sydney-"

"Work can wait," The other woman insisted, releasing her hold upon Fiona's arm as soon as she recognized the way in which she had stiffened almost immediately in response to the contact, despite the utter lack of ill intent behind it, "Sit. Please, Fiona. Sit."

Doing as she had been told, despite being more than a little reluctant to risk even the beginnings of a discussion over precisely what it was that had her so out of sorts, Fiona smoothed her hands across her thighs, her molars chewing at the inside of her cheek as she tried to ignore the reality of exactly how much skin her skirt did not cover in favor of watching Sydney in wary anticipation of what she might say or ask next. It was not that she didn't appreciate the other woman's concern. In fact, it was the exact opposite. But still, the idea of bringing anyone else she had come to care about in such a relatively short expanse of time in even the slightest bit of proximity to her father was nothing short of terrifying…

And the idea of what he might do to a woman like Sydney frightened her far more than even the prospect of his potential interaction with someone as kind-hearted as Aziraphale, her teeth clenching as she resolved to remain as vague as she could in her answers to whatever her current companion might ask.

"One of the customers hassling you? That guy that seems to love your section so much?"

"No. No," Fiona assured, her brow furrowing a bit at the thought of how readily she had come to defend the man she still only knew as Anthony, despite the fact that aside from a few meager conversations, she hardly could say she was familiar with him at all, "It's not him."

"But it is someone."

"It's not a customer, Sydney. It's no one that's ever been here."

"Who, then?" The brunette questioned, shifting just a bit to cross one leg over the other such that one stilettoed foot bobbed aimlessly in the air while she simultaneously rested her elbow on her thigh, and her chin on her hand as well, "Your other job?"

"No. The bookshop isn't the problem, either."

"Then what, sweetheart? Because I know enough to recognize when a woman wants to get as far away from something or someone as possible, and right now? That woman is you."

"It's just-it's someone I honestly didn't expect to come back into my life for a while," Fiona confessed, glancing down at where her hands rested in her lap, and frowning for a moment before deciding for an answer that was as close to the truth as she dared to get, at least for now, "And we don't-we don't exactly see eye to eye."

"Is this someone the reason behind that bruise on your arm?" Sydney mused, aware of the honestly startled expression that had taken over her companion's features, and reaching forward to take Fiona's hand in her own before the younger woman had a chance to pull away, "I saw it when I walked in the door, Fiona. It's not that hard to miss."

"But the-the concealer-"

"Doesn't really do the trick, when someone knows what they're looking for."

"And you do?"

"More than you know," Sydney replied, her eyes holding Fiona's as she simultaneously relinquished her hold upon the younger woman's hand, in favor of lifting the hem of her shirt just a bit to show a thin scar above her hip, "Ex-husband. More than a little fond of the bottle, and determined to make me pay for my mouth."

"I'm so sorry, Sydney."

"Don't be. I got the arsehole back in my own way. He's in jail, now, and here I am."

"Working for Sal," Fiona supplied, sharing in a reluctant laugh with her companion, though the smile she gave her did not quite reach her eyes. Truthfully she was more than a little surprised to hear that Sydney had ever been the victim of anything in her life, having seemed to walk through life with the sort of ease that could only come about through the confidence she seemed to have in spades. But she supposed all of that just went to prove that no matter how capable one might seem, the reality of their situation might very well be far different…

And that was something that she found herself taking some encouragement from, whether she truly ought to be or not.

"You know, Sal's not that bad if you can ignore the leering. And the comments," Sydney began, resettling the hem of her shirt in its original position, and leaning back in the chair she occupied with an almost lazy shrug before adding another comment in for good measure, "And the wandering hands."

"How on earth could anyone forget the wandering hands?" Fiona grimaced, but soon turning to laughing instead, this time with a bit more sincerity, and moving to stand as Sydney did the same, "We really have to go out there?"

"I'm afraid we do, if we want to get paid. But I think I already know of a way to make the night way more tolerable, for one of us, at least."

"Oh? How's that?"

"I think I caught sight of your little friend when I was coming in, so at least you'll have something fun to look at when dealing with all the other men trying to cop a feel."

Though she really didn't want to admit it out loud, Fiona would have been a liar to pretend that Sydney's information did not have her smiling genuinely for what felt like the first time since her father had taken over her couch…

…

"Tired of seeing me yet, love?" Crowley asked the young woman as she placed another beer on the table in front of him, his amusement only increasing as she flushed just as he had expected her to, before managing her own reply.

"Definitely not."

"After another tip, then?"

"What? No!" Fiona exclaimed, her expression startled, to say the least, as she eagerly denied the man's supposition, only to find herself realizing her mistake as soon as she saw the corner of his mouth starting to twitch upward into a smile, "Oh, you-you weren't being serious, were you?"

"M' always serious, pet. Part of my nature."

"Somehow I doubt that."

"Do tell," Crowley encouraged, swiping the beer bottle from the table, and taking a drink despite his honest preference for finer liquors, as a rule. Somehow, the idea for specifically requesting such a beverage, however, even if it could be found in the establishment, seemed as though it might just be in poor taste, and although the demon could not even begin to fathom why that mattered one way or another, he was still apparently reluctant to risk such a thing, his fingers lingering around the neck of the bottle, while he waited for the young woman standing before him to reply.

"You just-you seem like a man who enjoys a good joke, that's all."

"And do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Do you enjoy a good joke?"

"Maybe," Fiona shrugged, honestly surprised that she was able to manage a slightly mischievous smile of her own, though she would have been a liar had she attempted to say she was not pleased by the slight widening of her companion's grin in return, "Depends on the one telling it, I guess."

"Ah, so you're particular."

"I suppose you could say that, yes."

"None of your other patrons amuse you, then?" Crowley surmised, aware of how Fiona had frowned just a bit in response to the inquiry, and effecting a shrug to ensure she did not think he was prying simply for the sake of getting her into trouble, "I've had a chance or two to observe them while you were otherwise occupied."

"Oh?"

"None of them seem very fun, if I say so myself."

"And you-you are?" Fiona mused, folding both arms across her chest, and only just managing to suppress a wince as the act caused her fingers to inadvertently brush against the bruise her father had left upon her arm. If the man were as observant as he claimed to be, he would likely have noticed the entire thing, whether she wanted him to, or not. And for some reason, just as she was reluctant to involve Aziraphale, or Sydney in her affairs, the idea of this man knowing anything other than that she was just another waitress in a bar was far more daunting than she cared to admit.

For some reason, the idea of him seeing her as weak and vulnerable was simply something she could not bear.

Shaking herself before the thought could make itself known in her expression, however, Fiona once again dropped her hands back to her sides, her fingertips tracing against the top of the table for a moment, while she struggled with the idea of simply turning and heading back to the work that Sal would likely have expected her to have seen to, already. But something in the way the man was looking at her, even though she could not exactly say she saw his eyes beneath the shades he always wore, held her to the spot, her teeth chewing at her lower lip for a moment, until he finally took the liberty of replying, and distracting her from the nature of her own thoughts.

"I like to tell myself that, yes. And you're here, after all. Talking to me."

"And it's-not for the tip," Fiona added, once again managing a smile as she saw her free admission had caused Anthony to chuckle softly in response, his fingertips toying with the label on the beer bottle he had replaced upon the table in such a way that the young woman soon found herself unwittingly distracted by the precise movement involved therein.

"I should hope not, pet. I hadn't pegged you as the sort to hurt a man's feelings like that."

"Would it? Hurt your feelings?" The young woman questioned, honestly curious as to the nature of his reply, though she hoped that curiosity was not written as plainly upon her face as she feared it was, "You don't-you don't have to answer that, if you don't want-"

"Think I want to, though," Crowley admitted, risking a glance behind where Fiona stood, and noting that Sal himself appeared to be watching the two of them with no small degree of curiosity from where he lingered behind the bar. Though he was nothing short of uncertain in the wake of his apparent decision to play along with the girl's inquiry, it would have been a lie for the demon to pretend that a part of him did not wish to give her employer every reason to believe that she was still earning her keep, his hand drifting away from the half-empty bottle of beer to snake long fingers around her wrist, the better to give her a gentle tug around the table to where he was seated so that he might pull her to a seat in his lap with one arm curved around her waist.

"Just play along, love...wouldn't want you getting into any trouble with your boss."

…


End file.
